Dating Advice for Germans and Americans
by ElapsingSpiral
Summary: Ludwig and Alfred have one thing in common: questionable taste in the people they turn to for expert dating advice. Novel length and complete. G/It, US/UK
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **Set after my US/UK and G/It fics in which both couples are "established". Ludwig is looking for someone with whom to exchange "thoughts and observations regarding the day to day issues faced in relationships of an intimate nature"; Alfred is searching for some advice on Long Distance Relationships. Both have questionable taste in the "relationship experts" they consult.

**Dating Advice for Germans and Americans – Chapter 1 – August**

_The Germans are a good people. On the whole, the best people perhaps in the world; an amiable, unselfish, kindly people. I am positive that the vast majority of them go to Heaven. Indeed, comparing them with the other Christian nations of the earth, one is forced to the conclusion that Heaven will be chiefly of German manufacture. But I cannot understand how they get there. That the soul of any single individual German has sufficient initiative to fly up by itself and knock at St. Peter's door, I cannot believe. My own opinion is that they are taken there in small companies, and passed in under the charge of a dead policeman._

- _"Three Men on the Bummel" by Jerome K. Jerome, late 19__th__ century English author._

_**August 1**__**st**__**, London**_

It never failed to sicken Arthur how thoroughly _unsickened_ he was by the thrill that ran through him these days when his phone rang. Without looking up from his jotter, Arthur was now capable of reaching out and grabbing the receiver precisely about the middle to cradle against his ear.

"Hello you."

"Ah. Hallo?"

The phone slipped a little in his slacker grasp. Arthur gave the receiver a disconcerted frown.

"Who's this?"

"Ludwig. Were you expecting another call?"

A simple look at the clock told he him he really oughtn't to have been, "No. No. Still, I can't say that you would have been my first guess. What's the matter?"

"Nothing is the matter, I just wished, if it were possible, to ask you a few things."

Arthur's frown grew, his gaze absently following the course of a pigeon flying from a tree to his windowsill, where it stood and gave him a beady stare, "Alright. What kind of things, might I ask?"

"I am afraid they are quite personal matters, but, be assured, this conversation is confidential."

Arthur returned the pigeon's stare coolly, "Well, go on. I'm stumped here."

"How are your relations with Alfred, currently?"

"We have a "special relationship"," Arthur said promptly, "There's really little more to say."

"No," The German sounded equally dismissive, "I do not mean that. Political matters are not, sadly, our ambit. I meant between the two of you as a couple."

Arthur upset his mug of tea. He put the phone down, hearing a muted "Hallo? Arthur? Hallo?" as he grabbed a stack of Post-Its in a last ditch effort to soak up the worst of the spill. Once done, he took up the now sticky phone receiver and held it back against his ear.

"What on earth are you on about, "as a couple"?" he spluttered down the line.

"It is common knowledge that you are in a relationship."

"It bloody well isn't! I'd say it's about as uncommon a knowledge as is knocking about."

It sounded as though Ludwig was sighing on his end. His tone was just as measured when he continued, however, regardless of any irritation.

"It is as common a knowledge as your sexuality, Arthur."

"This is just getting rude-"

"I assure you, it is not. I am simply making my point. You say your relationship with Alfred is a secret; quite possibly to you looking outward, but not to those around you looking in at you both. Your behaviour in each other's presence is very telling. Likewise, your behaviour generally can be, ah, somewhat suggestive."

The pigeon gave a coo which Arthur felt sure had the stuttering quality of a chuckle about it, "I hardly go about pinching everybody's arses and kisses everyone's cheeks like a certain someone-"

"No, but- well, I shall give an example. Upon seeing Berwald last, I overheard you discussing the attractive pattern of your new Ikea sofa cushion covers and asking whether it would be wise to hand wash or machine wash them. You then proceeded to force the man into a conversation regarding the music of ABBA."

"This call better not have been to ask a favour, you know. I'm feeling somewhat ill-disposed towards you now, Ludwig."

The slight pause told him he'd hit the nail on the head.

"Arthur - might I meet you in a coffee shop somewhere in London? Tomorrow, say 8.30am?"

"Can't we just talk over the phone?"

"You take your isolation to extremes some times. I am only asking for one coffee, a brief chat. It can be anywhere you please. I simply feel that the sort of," Arthur heard how Ludwig considered his choice of wording carefully, "understanding, I wish for us to come to is better reached face to face. Transparency and honesty are necessary."

Arthur finally picked up the sodden, pilled post-it block between the tips of his thumb and forefinger and disposited the remains with a moist "plop" into his wastepaper bin, "Are you sure this isn't about war?"

"Most assured. Indeed, it is about the very opposite," Ludwig said, in a tone that suggested he was being led into divulging more than he wished to, "So do you agree?"

The pigeon gawped at Arthur expectantly. The Englishman gave a sigh.

"Oh, go on then. I have no bloody idea what you want though."

"Good. Thank you. Would 8.30am be an acceptable time for you?"

"8.30 tomorrow morning it is. Make it Starbucks on Berkley Street, W1, I can get the tube there. And if you tell Alfred I suggested that, we _will_ be discussing war. Is that a deal?"

"It is fair. I will see you tomorrow."

Having replaced the receiver, Arthur noticed that the pigeon had flown away, leaving a present by the way of a large splatter of excrement on the sill. He sighed, unable to shake the feeling the splotch on the brick outside was an ill omen for things to come.

_**August 2**__**nd**__**, London**_

Arthur had almost gone ahead and fished out his mobile to ring the German and redirect him to the right Starbucks before he realised the man was, indeed, sat only a few tables away from where he stood. The difference, upon closer inspection, was simply Ludwig's lack of suit. Try as Arthur might, he had difficulties remembering the last time he had seen him in anything else. From the way in which the other man sat looking out of one large bay window, Arthur knew that the German had not seen him enter. He let himself study the man openly for a moment as a result: jeans, a plain t-shirt revealing those ridiculously muscled arms, hair slicked back but fairly half-heartedly. The Englishman pulled a face at how several women seemed to be on the point of turning Victorian and swooning at the sight of him.

Ludwig's sharp blue gaze finally picked him out as he continued walking over with a mug of hot chocolate in hand.

"Did I keep you waiting?" Arthur gestured to an empty espresso cup sat before Ludwig on the small circular table, still reeking of ludicrously strong coffee.

"No. I was early. Thank you for coming," Ludwig said. His tone was one Arthur classed as "Ludwig casual", a tone of voice that for anyone else would be indicative of being organised and business-minded.

"Quite alright," he shrugged, "I mean this is just my doorstep. What I find more curious is why _you _wanted to come all this way in order to see me," he sipped his drink then added, "Or at least I assume it's me you want? I really couldn't tell from our phone call."

"No, it's you," Ludwig rubbed at a smudge on the dial of his watch as he spoke, "The weather is pleasant today."

"Please, don't feel like you need to make small talk on my account."

"As you prefer. I was wondering if we might begin a correspondence."

Arthur chose to drink some more hot chocolate in order to prompt the German to expand on his idea while he waited for him to stop sipping.

"You are, after all, one of few men I have any relatively frequent dealings with who is in a long term, committed relationship."

There was that comment about him and Alfred again, Arthur thought with irritation, roughly replacing his mug on the table with a thump. Still, the man felt another attempt at gleaning a more satisfactory explanation as to how Ludwig knew about their relationship would prove bootless. He settled upon giving the man a simple nod of agreement.

"You have chocolate sprinkles on your upper lip," Ludwig added. Arthur wiped his mouth with one finger.

"Apologies. It is early. I'm only half with it," he stirred his drink with his spoon, "Which goes some way to explain why I'm lost in your train of thought. What would the nature of this correspondence be, exactly?"

"A way of exchanging any thoughts and observations regarding day to day issues faced in relationships of an intimate nature."

Arthur found himself wishing that the girls still openly ogling Ludwig could hear the man . He felt with contentment that his own sex appeal was boosted when contrasted with Ludwig's rather Victorian outlook on life.

"Ludwig."

"Arthur?"

"Face facts," the German's right eye twitched perceptibly, "What you're saying is this: you want dating advice."

Ludwig appeared to mull the words over as though they were an accusation, staring into the sludgy remains of his coffee as he mumbled, "Yes. I suppose I am saying that."

"And you're asking me for it."

"I explained why."

"Mm. I suppose it makes some sort of sense," Arthur agreed, "But aren't there other options? Say, I don't know, your brother? He's been around longer than you, he must have a few tales to tell."

Ludwig bowed his head in a gesture of further despondency.

"Not about committed relationships."

"... I suppose not, no. Then, how about just talking to Feliciano?"

The German became a little more animated in his response, his expression thoughtful and concerned, "I think that's the problem. He feels I don't take any initiative with these matters. I can see how it irritates him when I ask him over and again about our relationship, so-"

"So you thought you'd just ask me instead?"

"Believe me," Ludwig said solemnly, "I have tried searching my own soul for the answers. So far it has been quiet on the matter."

"It's a totally ridiculous idea."

"I apologise."

Arthur finished off his own drink, recalling for some unknown reason the splatter of pigeon muck on his windowsill as he considered Ludwig's plea, "But, I suppose we've got bugger all to lose. You've got my email address from work, of course. No offence but whilst you might have wanted to set this little understanding up face to face, I'm not all that eager to hear about your love life in the same manner. Drop me an email when you get chance with the nitty gritty and we'll see what we can cook up."

Still, their mutual nod of agreement aside, Arthur was left with an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach knowing that Francis was somewhere, perhaps padding naked about his kitchen at this hour, not being consulted on matters of l'amour.

_**August 7**__**th**__**, NYC**_

"Arthur," Alfred panted the name over and over, eyes closed tight and his body shivering with the feeling that his senses were being overloaded.

He tried, desperately, to catch his breath. His heels dug further into the mattress, a mirror, a response to how his head fell back upon the pillow, bangs falling haphazardly into his eyes.

"There, please. I love it when you touch just, just _there,_" the hand stroked about the very root of his dick, teasing, sliding against the heated skin, fingers tracing over his balls before grabbing hold more firmly once again and pumping outright. He gave a loud moan at the change.

"Arthur. I'm gonna – I really need to-" Any moan or whimper caught in his throat as he shook with the release that flooded through him, heady and warm. Alfred lay back and felt his heart continue to pound away in the after-math, further fuelling the heat that poured off the skin of his face and neck. As his heartbeat became once again just a quiet, dependable thud in his chest, he let himself reach out one hand for a box of tissues in a set of drawers by his bed to wipe off his stomach and his hand.

He checked the clock: 6.32pm. So, 11.32pm GMT. After a moment's deliberation, he fished his mobile phone from his trouser pocket and dialled the number.

He gave a lazy, satisfied smile at how quickly Arthur answered.

"Sorry if you were asleep."

"I wasn't just yet. I was-"

"Reading," Alfred finished for him, "Yeah, I figured. Did you get that novel I mailed?"

" "The Big Sleep"? Yes, that's what I'm reading."

It had been a revelation Alfred had had only a few years ago, that books were one of few gifts Arthur would willingly accept without fuss or snide comments, "What'd you think of it?"

"As piss funny as I remembered it being. I approve," Arthur said, as though surprised by his own admission, "How's your day going?"

"Fine I guess. My boss said th-"

"Oi, what've I told you? No shop talk. Especially not this late at night. I mean, what have _you_ been up to, personally?"

"You and that damn rule. I don't know, I've been keeping busy? Arranging a meet up with Toris. Shop talk, more shop talk," he gave a glance to the crumpled tissues beside him, "And, um, other stuff."

"Jolly good."

It was with hard to contain amusement that Alfred asked "How's the planning going?"

The Englishman's long pause before he replied spoke volumes.

"Fine. Absolutely fine."

Alfred quirked an eyebrow at his mobile, "Really though?"

"Shit. Thoroughly shit," Arthur sighed down the line at him, "I swear it was rigged, the host nation selection."

"It's totally random. And you haven't held a World Conference weekend since the 19th century. I think it's overdue," he said, one hand zipping his jeans back up, "Just get it over with."

"But the _theme_ this year. Didn't you see how Francis – no, actually how _everyone_, yourself included - just ducked behind their hands to laugh not so subtly. I even saw Kiku's mouth trembling with the effort to keep serious!"

"No, I didn't see because I was too busy laughing," Alfred said, hearing a huff from Arthur, "Run the theme by me again? The memory's hazy."

"Piss off. Bloody "Diplomacy and Developing Relationships". It's rigged, and I know it. You're not telling me money didn't pass hands when you just so happened to get "Sports" as your theme in '76, and that gianormous surprise in the '90s, France getting "Cuisine". I have the distinct impression my name wasn't even in the hat on that particular occasion."

"What have you got planned then?" He heard Arthur shuffle about in his bed, possibly glancing out at his desk across the bedroom, "Nothing?"

"Not exactly nothing. But what I have got is fairly embryonic, yes," Arthur said unconvincingly, "That's enough discussing of that crap, anyway."

"Fine."

Alfred looked out of his window at the familiar figure standing firm and tall before his building, torch held high in an unwavering hand. He squinted a little, out beyond the river, beyond the coast, kidding himself somehow he could make out the faint, coarse outline of an island, more than 3000 miles away.

Arthur's gentle breathing down the phone made him smile, albeit it weakly. He held the phone a little closer, almost turning to lie with it on the bed, caught between his ear and the pillow.

"I miss you," the Englishman, admitted.

"Yeah, I know you do. I'm that awesome."

"Goodness. You're making me fall in love with you all over again," the man deadpanned, "Look - I'll ring you tomorrow, alright? It's getting rather late, I can feel myself nodding off."

"Okay, sure."

"Good Afternoon."

"Good night. Sweet dreams."

_**August 7**__**th**__**, Berlin**_

"Hey, Ludwig," The German nodded to show he was awake, placing his own hand over Feliciano's as it wandered over his chest under the bed covers, "Would it be okay if I maybe brought over a couple of old paintings?"

"Hm?" Ludwig tried his best to peer across at his lover without having to move drastically, being pleasantly settled on his pillow in spite of the small part of his mind that was telling him, admonishingly, that it was time to get up, "What's that?"

"I just thought that if I'm going to spend so much time over here it might be good if I brought over some stuff I like," Feliciano leaned across Ludwig, practically lying on top of him in his effort to meet his gaze full on, "Oh! But I don't mean your taste is bad, just, I don't know, I spend less and less time at my place, so it might be a good idea if I had some of my things here."

"Sure," Ludwig nodded. He stroked back Feliciano's bangs with one hand, letting a finger brush delicately against his curl and sending a little thrill through the other man, "I can't see why not. If you think of this place as your house, then it must be."

Feliciano let himself lay down properly, resting his cheek against the hollow of Ludwig's collarbone, "It is?"

"Yes."

"Thank you," he hugged the man lazily, clearly ready to fall back to sleep, "I'll do that."

"Wait, Feliciano-"

Before Ludwig could extract himself from the bed, the Italian was already snoring and muttering away to himself contentedly. He attempted to extract himself only to find the grip on his torso tightened with a mutter of something that sounded rather like "No. No - mine." He gave the ceiling a scowl and grabbed his Blackberry from the dresser and began to answer his emails instead, all but using the top of Feliciano's head as a makeshift desk.

_**August 8**__**th**__**, NYC**_

"Morning,"

"Oh hey, I'm kinda busy," Alfred said, biting into a hamburger and attempting to chew it quickly enough to continue his sentence without interruption from Arthur, "Shop talk so I can't explain – your rule, remember? And then I promised I was gonna ring up Feliks and Toris."

"Oh," the word seemed suspiciously guarded, "Oh, fine."

"I can talk later though. How is stuff with you?"

He heard Arthur clear his throat, the vocal equivalent of a shrug, "Sound. World Conference plans are coming together. I better leave you to it though if you're busy – hang on, you're feeding those bloody pigeons in Central Park again, aren't you? I told you, you encourage them that way. They have diseases, you idiot."

"They looked hungry," he took another bite himself and gave one pigeon an apologetic look, "It's kinda weird that you could hear all that, though."

"It's more that I know your habits."

Reluctantly, Alfred gave his watch a glance, "Shit. I really have got to go now. I'll catch you later."

"Say it."

"Love you, "git"."

"Same. Talk to you soon."

_**August 15**__**th**__**, Berlin**_

"I was eating that-"

"You _were_," Gilbert corrected and took an exaggerated, satisfied bite out of the brockwurst he'd just seized. He raised an eyebrow at his little brother as he continued typing up a document on his laptop wearing an expression of wearied acceptance on his features.

"Whatcha doin'?"

"Working," Ludwig adjusted his glasses as though to verify his claim. His typing grew louder.

"Huh. Where's the hot piece of ass you keep around here?"

Ludwig pressed the enter button with enough force to create a crunch of plastic on plastic. Finally, the man fixed his brother with a look.

"What?"

"Where's the hot piece of-"

"I assume that's Feliciano?"

Gilbert finished the brockwurst and licked his fingers, "Who else?" he said, mouth full. Ludwig visibly twitched.

"In the living room."

"You two are joined at the hip."

"I don't see how it matters to you if we are."

At that, a snatch of singing could be heard from down the corridor, lilting and cheery. Gilbert beamed at the sound.

"What's he doing, anyway?"

"Redecorating," Ludwig said as he placed a few documents neatly into different cubby-holes of his desk.

Gilbert slowed down in his ministrations with his fingers, staring at his sibling, "Seriously? You realise when you step back in there it's gonna be the Sistine Chapel, right?"

"He knows what I like. It's fine. He just said that he'd got some cushions and paintings at home that would look good in there."

"Hey - gorgeous? You there?" Gilbert called through to the Italian, to a hiss of "Don't call him that, idiot!" from Ludwig.

"Huh? Is that Gilbert? Yeah!" The Italian more or less shouted over the intervening distance, "Come see, come see!"

Ludwig rose from his desk chair, taking his glasses off, carefully folding them and placing them in their case. He followed his brother at a distance, watching as the man rounded the corner in the corridor and disappeared through the doorway into the living room. A moment later, he heard a full bellied laugh that he knew from his childhood was never inspired by good situations.

He turned the corner himself with a slow breath in. He felt his face go into lockdown as a small, energetic body barrelled into him at full pelt. The head of hair tickling against the base of his neck, he noted, was flecked with something – plaster, he realised, after a moment's consideration.

His eyes didn't lingered on his lover. They were drawn rather to the source of a new and unexpected smell in the room: the tart odour of fresh paint. His eyes focused in upon one wall of the room as though studying it through a gun-sight: the wall was now a sticky, still-wet shade of fresh, crisp grass green as opposed to the expected stark white. A dustsheet lay about the wall's base, also flecked with paint, and, he noticed upon further consideration, heaped upon one brown leather arm chair were a curious variety of empty wooden picture frames. Ludwig finally forced himself to look down and meet Feliciano's insistent look. The man gave him a beam of a smile, a smudge of paint on the apple of his cheek.

"It's good, right?"

Gilbert came up behind Ludwig and clapped a hand on the man's shoulder.

He addressed the Italian, however, when he spoke up, in a joyous tone, "Hey, Feliciano - when you're finished in here, you definitely need to do something about Ludwig's bedroom. That place is so dusty and dull, right?"

He felt his little brother tense under his touch with another bark of laughter.

_**August 16**__**th**__**, Berlin**_

"Hey," Feliciano balanced the phone on his hunched shoulder as he attempted to wrench up the lid of a can of wood stain, "Can you hear me?"

"Yeah, but-"

"Oh, but you're not Ludwig."

"Yeah, I'm not Ludwig," the voice agreed, "Wrong number, Feliciano."

Feliciano rocked back on his haunches as the lid came free with a jerk, "Ah! And sorry, Alfred! I have a new phone; Ludwig bought it. It's touch screen and stuff; apparently it's really good but I can't work it."

"Okay. See you around."

The Italian stirred the gloopy contents of the can, stirring in a vein of dye so that the stain turned a warmer, smoother colour, "Don't feel like you have to say, but is everything okay?"

There was a suspiciously loaded pause on the other end of the line, "Sure I am. Why'd you ask?"

"Eh, I don't know. It's hard to tell with phones but you sound like... Hm, well you know how you can feel at the end of a holiday and you realise you had all these plans and you didn't do any of the stuff you meant to? Kind of... weary and hollow?" He cringed as he saw a drop of wood stain fly through the air and catch the edge of a nearby table as he put down the old kitchen spoon he had been stirring with. He picked up a paint brush, "...Now you're angry. Sorry. I was just babbling and-"

"No. That's kinda right. I feel," He heard the man's voice grow softer then louder, as though he was tilting his head toward and away from his phone, pensively, "Just kind of not happy in myself. Like you said, hollow. Not _bad_. I'm still awesome and shit, but," there came a sigh, "Things are taking their toll."

"What things?" Feliciano painted the delicate outline of a tree onto the dust sheet to test the colour of the paint, "Ah! Arthur! I forgot that you two are together now. It's really good that you are, by the way. I had a feeling; I always had a feeling about you two."

"Wait. I never told you about that. It's a secret! It's classified information!" Alfred came close to yelping, his words quick-fire, "Did _Arthur_ tell you? Was he drunk?"

"No. Eh, I just guessed?" It hadn't even been a guess, Feliciano realised, since it had been perfectly obvious, "But is that the problem: Arthur? You fought?"

"No. I mean, yeah, we do fight sometimes but that's not the problem. It's... it's the distance," the American said noncommittally, "It's no big deal really: we talk on the phone and email. I don't know, I guess I'm jealous of you Europeans sometimes, you can visit each other all the time. It's not so easy for us, plus it's really weird if I keep making lots of excuse for him to come and visit. We're not really like you and Ludwig. I need to wake up sometimes and know I don't have Arthur-drool on my sheets. I need a little space sometimes. Even so, I do kind of miss him and it just nags at me... it makes that hollow feeling."

"Mm," Feliciano began to stroke paint carefully onto the first picture frame, lips pursed with care, "I understand."

"You do?" the man almost sounded suspicious of the Italian's simple sympathy, "Has Ludwig ever been away that long while you've been together?" the American added awkwardly, "I mean, I know you guys didn't have much contact after WW2... But recently, you seem to be a combo deal. You're kind of Feliciano-and-Ludwig."

Feliciano smiled at Alfred's words, but let the expression fade as he considered the innocent question of whether Ludwig ever been away for a long time.

"Yeah, he went away for a time. And I missed him a lot, so I understand," he said, gently stroking the first line of rich, mahogany wood stain over the plain surface of the picture frame.

"Oh," Alfred said, in soft confusion. Their silence was finally broken by Alfred, after several more careful brushstrokes from Feliciano.

"Um. Well. Do you have any advice about that kind of stuff, maybe?"

_**August 17**__**th**__**  
From: Ludwig, to Kirkland, A.**_

Sir,

I am in grave need of advice. I have listed my current problems as bullet points below:

1) My living room currently smells of paint and pasta.

2) Feliciano yawned in the middle of intercourse the previous night (I apologise for the vulgar tone of this email, but I cannot avoid these details, really).

3) I no longer dare ask Feliciano how he is feeling or what he would like me to do with regard to our relationship, lest he give me a look I can only compare to the one he gives me when I say I'm going to go and work out for the afternoon or (apologies) whenever any mention is made to your cooking,

Have you ever encountered anything similar to these circumstances? What should I do?

I await your reply,

Ludwig

_**August 18**__**th**__**  
From Kirkland, A. to Ludwig.**_

"Sir"?

Come on, stick out of your arse now mate. You're asking me why your spunky little Italian boyfriend is yawning while you shag him and why he's pulling faces at you when you ask him to tell you what to do to make him happy (And don't worry. I've come to believe everybody's slights are part of a big bloody conspiracy you lot have concocted and that, actually, you all adore my cooking).

I myself have never dated an Italian, though I did once get involved with a rather lacksidasical bloke in the 1600s who was a bit too interested in the arts and a little too apathetic about politics and the economy, so I think I have some inkling of what you're going through. Either way, I've given your predicament some thought.

Oh, but before I go into that, I thought I better check that you realise I'll want small remuneration for this favour I'm paying you. Nothing too bad, but I won't go into it here. Expect a letter in the post sometime this week.

Anyway, back to business:

1) It could smell worse. Why the wet paint, though? I can only assume he's painting you nude (I mean both of you there) or that he's decorating. Still, it really could be worse.

2) It's just an idea, but is it possible that you have a problem with Feliciano yourself? Certainly, you're not likely to be (openly) rolling your eyes at him or yawning mid-coitus, but if you have any issues it might be giving off a subtle vibe that is inspiring Feliciano's behaviour. Maybe you should consider whether you need to get any stuff off your chest before you can "happily" launch yourself into resolving the issue of being too scared to be romantic and constantly verifying with Feliciano that you're what he wants.

Right, I think I sound a bit too much like an agony aunt for my own good, so I best sign off,

Arthur,

P.S. Care to run the World Conference for this year? I know you enjoy organising things.

_**August 20**__**th**__**  
From Ludwig to Kirkland, A.**_

Arthur,

I will give your suggestions some thought.

Feliciano is redecorating extensively (my encouraging him to hang paintings around the house has become an invitation to repaint and reupholster), not painting my portrait (I did happen upon him decorating in the nude, however). As to the remunerations -I will wait for your letter.

I'd prefer it if you didn't call Feliciano my "spunky little Italian boyfriend" (Really. It would be wise for you if you didn't.)

Many thanks,

Ludwig,

P.S.

No. I am _good_ at organisation; I do not, however, actively seek out additional events _to_ organise. Again: no.

P.P.S.

You may have to lower the drawbridge before the other nations will be able to reach you to attend the Conference.

_**August 21**__**st**__**  
From Kirkland, A. to Ludwig.**_

Good God you made a joke.

... I mean to say. _You_ made a joke. Glad I was sitting down when I read that.

_**August 24**__**th**__**, Berlin**_

Feliciano gave Ludwig a tender kiss on each check and handed him a letter when he arrived home that evening. The letter, on closer inspection, was hand addressed in what looked like fountain pen and contained one small folded sheet that read:

_**A Kirkland,  
England**_

_**Ludwig,**_

Kindly send beer.

Regards,

Arthur


	2. Chapter 2

**Dating Advice for Germans and Americans Chapter 2**

_**September 2**__**nd**__**, London**_

"If you could just sign here."

"Certainly," Arthur stifled a yawn and did as instructed, blearily squinting at the electronic pad proffered by the postman. He let the man load his arms with a large cardboard box afterwards, blinking in the dull light of his narrow hallway all the while. Some short while after the post van had trundled away down the street Arthur came to his senses enough to kick the front door shut and drop the heavy package down beside a potted ficus. After studying the unexpected parcel and the American, as opposed to German franking, the Englishman decided that it was too early to go about stabbing at brown taped parcels wildly with a pair of scissors. Arthur opted instead to make an invigorating cup of tea and hobbled into the kitchen to put his plan into action, pulling his dressing gown closer about him as he did so, head mulling over a few possibilities as to what the box might contain.

When he had begun to wake up and had reluctantly bathed and shaved he had almost forgotten about the parcel. Instead, Arthur consulted his "Work Conference – To Do" list and worked up the resolve to pick up his phone and ring an unfamiliar number.

"Что вы хотите,aru?"

"Er, quite. Hello Yao."

"...Arthur, aru?"

Arthur gave his temple a pre-emptive rub, "Yes, it's Arthur. Hello there. I was wondering – would you fancy running the World Conference Long Weekend?"

The Chinaman's bristling was actually audible, "Stop, aru. Ludwig has already sent an email to everyone warning us that you would ask. I won't, aru. It will be refreshing to see you run it. Maybe you won't be so eager to get drunk if you are vomiting onto your own priceless rugs, aru," the man said, with subtle venom.

"I did apologise for that."

"Apologies do not remove vomit stains, aru. Let's not speak of that. If that was your only reason for ringing, I will say goodbye."

"No, no it isn't," Arthur said, tapping a pen against the second item on his "To Do" list, "I was wondering if you might fancy putting together some catering for the weekend? And perhaps providing goodie bags and stuff?"

"...Catering, aru?" The man said, guardedly.

"Yes. I'm being honest," Arthur made an attempt to crank up the imploring note in his voice, "I have a bit of a soft spot for your food and I know you like to set up shop just about anywhere-"

"For a payment, of course?"

"Of course."

"And "Goodie bags", aru?" Yao's curious tone suggested he was warming to the idea.

"Yes, a little gift. Some gadgets, perhaps, for everyone to take away with them: a cheap MP3 player, some pointless gismo that'll entertain everyone for half an hour, that sort of thing."

"I see. Yes, I think I could arrange that, aru. Although, even with the value for money I can provide, such "goodie bags" will still cost a substantial amount, Arthur," Yao warned with evident pleasure.

"About that," Arthur gave a little cough which caused Yao to huff in protest, "I foresee this weekend involving a lot of "team building exercises". In particular, I imagine there will be plenty of those physical contact "trusting your neighbour" activities and team games. You know the sort, the ones where you rely on your team mates to catch you while you let yourself fall backward and so forth."

"So, aru?"

"Give me a discount and Yong Soo will never end up on your team."

Yao's answer was near-instant.

"It is a deal, Arthur. A pleasure to do business with you, aru. I will see you at the Conference, aru."

"Thank you. And see you then," Arthur put the phone back with a little chuckle, crossing "Catering" and "Gifts" off his list with two victorious swipes of his biro. Having returned the pen to the desk tidy, he took in the sight of the scissors there and recalled the unexpected package.

Upon opening it, he was met with a stack of books, upside down. He flipped the bottom book and laid sight on a glossy cover plastered with people wearing beaming, business-like smiles and the bold print title of "Diplomacy and You: A How To for Honest, Non-Aggressive and Positive Relationships"."

He tipped the rest of the box's contents onto the floor to find half a dozen volumes all with similarly insipid titles, each sporting a recommendation from some or other authority in the field who Arthur had never heard of and all of whom appeared to have stopped buying their clothes in the 1980s.

Curiously he dug through the pile, flicking through each book quickly, before throwing them back on the floor with a queasy frown as he caught sight of words such as "synergy" and "openness". At the very bottom of the pile Arthur spotted another novel-sized book. Upon studying the spine, he saw it was a leather bound copy of "The Talented Mr Ripley" with, he realised, a sheet of notepad paper tucked between the front cover and pages that read:

"_Hey. Knew you'd look at this one first._

_Got you these books. Thought you might need some help being diplomatic._

_Love, (Sorry but that always looks corny. Hell, you know what I think. Remember when I came over last and you got your hands tied to your bed frame with your old cravat and what followed? Yeah, _that's_ how I feel about you.)_

_Alfred._

_P.S. DO NOT TREAT MR RIPLEY AS A DIPLOMACY HOW TO GUIDE!! IF YOU DO I WILL NOT BE HELD RESPONSIBLE. The movie of this was pretty good and I saw this copy and I know how you go weak at the knees over leather-bound books. You've probably read it. Your house is made of piles of books. Put up some goddamn shelves already; I come back to my place with bruises on my shins every time because I walked into Faulkner or I stumbled over the Brontës on my way to the bathroom._

_Anyway this was only supposed to be a quick heads up._

"_Love",_

_Alfred._

Arthur placed both novel and note onto the hall table with a sigh, gaze returning to the veritable landslide of how to books that graced his hallway carpet, their covers gleaming where the overhead light caught them. He gave one a half-hearted kick as he picked his way through the mess. The business suited woman on the front cover continued to look confident, dynamic and worst of all, American. Arthur ignored her and continued walking back toward his study with a dragging gait.

There really wasn't a happy way to resolve this idiotic situation, he knew: if he were to read the books – well, the idea wasn't even a bloody possibility as far as he was concerned. The other option of selling the books was equally unsatisfactory as it meant Alfred would still have wound up helping him by putting him in pocket. He decided to dismiss the matter for the time being and unearthed his embroidery from a desk drawer, stabbing a little harder than was strictly necessary at a rose on the cross-stitch sampler.

_**September 3**__**rd**__**,  
From Feliciano! To Alfred Jones**_

Hi!

I'm okay to email, right? I like to because Ludwig always looks really surprised when I use his computer since I don't like them as much as he does. I think it actually gets him kind of turned on, he's weird like that (but I don't mind).

Sorry, I've gone off track already. Ah! Long Distance Relationships, that's it. Yes, I was just having a glass of wine and I got to thinking about how I made myself feel better while I waited for Ludwig to return from, well, from being away for so long.

I think one thing you need to do – and I'm sure you do, you've always seemed to me like an energetic sort of guy – is to keep busy with other things. When you stop and just focus on how much you miss Arthur that hollow, lonely feeling will get worse. Make sure you keep in contact with all your friends, go out and do fun stuff. Send me an email to let me know how that works out!

Hoping for the best,

Feliciano

_**September 8**__**th**__**, Berlin**_

"Feliciano-"

"And these. I love these."

"Feliciano, really, we have plenty of-"

"Oh and here's cheese!"

"We need cheese?"

"Sure we need cheese."

Ludwig looked down at the contents of the already packed supermarket trolley. The latest edition, the wedge of cheese, rolled awkwardly down the mountain of goods to fall with a clunk down beside several cases of beer.

"Do you like amaretti? They're really nice and sweet. They have honey and almonds, I think you'd like them, you do have a bit of a sweet-tooth-"

"_Feliciano_," The Italian finally came to a halt, hand faltering on its way to the shelf as Ludwig resorted to his militant tone, "No more snacks. No more cheese, pasta or herbs. Nothing. We _do_ need drinks – cordials, juice – one or two bottles, maximum. Shall I pick them, or will you?"

Feliciano gave a sheepish smile, "Do you want to pick them?"

"Fine," Ludwig pushed the trolley toward the right aisle (Feliciano having given up on doing so once the weight became unbearable), the Italian following at a distance, delayed by his frequent stops as he picked up different items to study or looked at displays of items on offer.

"This is nice though, right?" Feliciano said as they turned into the right aisle, somehow coming up alongside, overtaking and jumping onto the end of the trolley in order to look back at Ludwig pleasantly. The German leant down a little in his effort to push the loaded trolley and his lover the little remaining distance to a display of juice, "Shopping together, I mean. I think it's the sort of thing couples should do together. Though, I still wish we'd gone to a market too. I like markets better."

Ludwig tried to ignore the curious looks they were attracting, focusing on selecting a few different beverages, guided in his efforts by Feliciano's less than subtle frowns and smiles as he picked up different cartons and bottles, "Doing all the shopping in one place is practical; it saves time."

"And?"

"And?"

"Do you like shopping together?"

"...The bill is considerably higher when you help me shop," Ludwig admitted. Feliciano held onto the trolley with one hand so he could blow him a little kiss with the other.

"Maybe, but I keep you well fed."

"True. Let's go to the checkout."

En route to the till, Feliciano hopped off the end of the trolley, clearly having spotted another display or aisle of interest. Ludwig decided to take advantage of the moment as an opportunity to make paying and packing as quick and straightforward as possible.

The Italian did not seem to see it that way. As he packed his purchases into carrier bags, heart weighed down as he saw the "amount to pay" figure keep climbing, Ludwig heard a familiar yelp.

"Eh? Ludwig, where'd you go?"

He gave a wave which the man, emerging from an aisle, failed to spot as he looked about wildly in every direction but the checkouts. The man had to spot him eventually, Ludwig determined, so he kept from being rude and simply shouting.

The Italian, on the other hand, soon resorted to shouting.

"Ludwig?? Ludwig I'm lost! Help, I'm lost!"

The cashier gave the shouts a frown and then gave his customer a particularly confused look as the man turned red in the face.

"LUDWIG! I'M BY THE CONDOMS AND STUFF. HELP!"

Ludwig dropped the can of furniture polish in his hand, causing it to crash onto the till and dent, his temple beginning to throb.

"LUDWIG I WAS LOOKING AT LUBE-"

"DAMNIT I'M HERE. NOW COME OVER HERE BEFORE I KILL YOU. I SWEAR I WILL KILL YOU!"

Ludwig realised, in the ringing silence, that fell that his own words had been in German, not English. He stood and stared as Feliciano walked over to him, placing some lubricant with the few items left to be scanned, and after spotting Ludwig apparently transfixed began to pack the rest of the shopping himself, giving the dented can of polish a curious look before stuffing it into a bag.

Ludwig finally found his voice once they had paid and were wheeling their trolley back to his car.

"I will have to use another supermarket," he murmured to himself.

"Oh, or the market!" Feliciano nodded enthusiastically. Upon studying the trolley contents another look, he voiced a half-forgotten question, "What's with all the beer?"

"Hm? Oh," Ludwig said, still dazed, "It's not for me. It's a gift."

"For your brother?"

"Nein," Ludwig said distractedly, trying to recall where other supermarkets were in relation to his house. He opened the boot of his car and grabbed a few of the beer cases, "I can't say who. We made an agreement."

"An agreement?" the other man asked softly.

"Yes," Ludwig gave a shrug, "It is confidential but not especially important."

The Italian, he noticed, tracked each case's travel from the trolley to the car with a weary frown before seeming to shrug off whatever mood had fallen over him and smiling once again, "Oh. Okay."

_**September 8**__**th**__**  
From Ludwig to Kirkland, A.**_

Arthur,

I have sent you some beer. I hope it will be sufficient.

I see your point regarding the possibility that I have issues with Feliciano myself. I have compiled a list below (not comprehensive) of my grievances with the man:

1) When he sleeps over at my house, I typically wake 40 minutes later than usual because each time we awaken he begs me for "just ten more minutes".

2) He is impossible to detach from oneself whilst he is asleep.

3) He has been known to talk in his sleep. I will not reveal the nature of this monologue.

4) He has a habit of distracting me from my work with food.

5) He has a habit of distracting me from my work by asking mundane questions.

6) He has a habit of distracting me from my work with – I apologise – sexual advances.

7) He wears my clothes.

8) He eats my food yet complains about it.

9) Whenever I visit Feliciano, Lovino is almost guaranteed to turn up and threaten me at length, or at least to scowl and then pointedly talk to his brother in indecipherable Italian which typically causes Feliciano either to gesticulate (more than usual), blush or shout. On one occasion, I was forced to let myself out and to go home because the debate seemed likely to continue into the early hours of the morning.

10) He is currently redecorating my house, as I have mentioned previously.

11) There was an incident in a local supermarket. I cannot bring myself to explain.

12) The man is awful at tactical manoeuvres, attacking, defending, training armies, etc.

13) He has been known to criticise my fitness regime, taste in food, taste in music, taste in decor, my regular use of the "missionary position" in intercourse (apologies), my appreciation of technology and my work ethic (i.e. that I possess a strong one).

14) Yet he does not criticise my brother. I am not sure if he is aware of doing so, but he encourages his advances and this often results in me and my brother arguing for such duration that I find that Feliciano has let himself out and gone home when we have stopped.

15) Sometimes, when he thinks I am not watching, he wears a lonely and weary expression that I wish I could take away.

16) Occasionally, when we (again, apologies) make love, I can see a spark in his eyes that tells me he wants more from me, a greater bond, and I am not sure whether I can provide that.

17) He is scared of my dogs and requires my escort from room to room when they are in the house.

18) He is frequently nude. I have the feeling that he has sat on, touched, held or used every object in my house either nude from the waist down or totally nude.

19) When we argue, he only smiles or says "I am sorry. You are right." Sometimes, I wish to fight, especially when I know that he is right and I am wrong, and I want him to correct me because I cannot do so myself.

20) He eats food in bed (which often requires cutlery).

I will end my list there, although I could continue.

Whilst I appreciate your suggestion, Arthur, I am not sure if making this list has helped matters. I have read the completed list over and I know that every point on it is honest. Yet still, I find myself thinking that these problems are inconsequential, and that they in no way detract from my feelings for Feliciano.

I can therefore only assume that the problem in our relationship lies within myself.

I would appreciate any suggestions as to what my deficiency could be.

Thank you,

Ludwig

_**September 9**__**th**__**, NYC**_

"Hey," Alfred grabbed a rag from his garage floor with his free hand and gave his forehead a wipe, "How's stuff?"

"Good. I just saw one of your new action films," The American rolled his eyes at the familiar, hyper-critical, hyper-sarcastic tone Arthur was employing, "God knows what it was called, I've already forgotten. "Full" "Epic" "Strike-down" "Shootout" "Deathray": some combination of those words no doubt."

"And you really loved it huh?" Alfred said during a lull in the man's tirade.

"So very, very much. Particularly the five seconds where everyone made a desperate bid to act because there weren't any explosions or breasts on screen."

"Geez, just don't watch them if you don't like them," he said, hand reaching out for a different spanner, "It's not like I want you to. You always whine."

"...I do not have it in me, the ability to whine," The Englishman's tone was one of obvious disgruntlement, "And, as ever, the trailer was semi-decent; I got tricked into giving it a chance. Anyway," Arthur sighed, "I was actually so utterly bored this morning I packed a suitcase ready for my holiday at yours."

"Wow. I just throw crap at mine an hour before I leave for the airport. It's not that long 'til I come over to yours for that long-weekend break thing, just a couple of weeks? What've you got planned for me, anyway?"

"Sexual congress."

"Sounds good. And then?"

"Perhaps followed by some sexual intercourse, leading to a round of making love."

"God I love it when you talk dirty," Alfred smirked up at the underside of machine he was laid beneath, "I'm not done with the movie business yet though. Your movies are worse."

"You take that back you little arse."

"No way. They're so slow and they're all about crying or picnics or being gay," he heard Arthur huff, "Okay, well maybe that's better than the breasts thing depending on the team you're batting for, but the gay guys never get to screw because someone goes to war or is married or is filled with religious guilt or some shit."

"You done? Are you microwaving something, by the way? What's with all the beeping in the background?"

"Oh. Well, there's the beeps from my top secret project, I'm kind of lying underneath it right now," He knew Arthur knew better than to ask about one of his inventions, the details typically leaving the man either cold, dubious or concerned for Alfred's, as well as his own, safety, "And then there's the beeps because my phone is getting texts while I'm talking to you."

"Who from?"

"How should I know? I can't look at them while we're talking, can I? I guess Feliciano."

"Why Feliciano?"

Alfred turned the phone onto speakerphone and proceeded to pick up a wrench and begin to ratchet a bolt into place, "Because. We just got to talking one day last month and we're keeping in touch now. He's a good guy, really upbeat."

"I suppose so," Arthur said with what sounded like apprehension, "But ditzy, wouldn't you say?"

"That's rich. Tell me, where are your house keys, right now?"

"Where I left them last."

"And that is where?" He gave the machine a tap with the wrench and a satisfyingly substantial "clunk" rang out.

"Wherever I left them. Besides, you're missing a very important difference between myself and Feliciano."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes._ I_ am working on a crossword puzzle in the nude as we speak," Alfred slammed his hand and forehead into the machine, his body attempted to jolt him into sitting up so quickly, "And whilst we've been talking my "7 down", shall we say, has turned into a 7 across," there was a pause in the Englishman's conversation, "You're not unconscious, are you?"

"No," Alfred winced, giving his hand a massage, "But I near enough was. That was sneaky."

"Then that'll teach you not to mock my films, won't it? Game, set and match to me I think. I'll talk to you later when you're not tinkering with your teleporter."

"Asshole."

"You love it. Later, kiddo."

_**September 10**__**th**__**,  
From Kirkland, A. to Ludwig**_

Ludwig,

You realise just how loaded a question that is, don't you? Whether I think you have any deficiencies in your character?

I want to live. My desire to live is so strong that I cannot bring myself to answer.

If I attempt to put myself in Feliciano's shoes, though, I do wonder whether you don't embarrass too easily. If you're going to date a man like Feliciano, you really cannot afford to have _any_ propensity for embarrassment.

Also, why not just try and push his buttons a little, next time you have an argument? I know you said he just says you're right but if you work at it hard enough you'll find out what makes him see red. Trust me, I'm an expert when it comes to arguing. It might help you to discover what's really making him yawn at you in bed and annex your living room.

My suggestion, by the way, for curing embarrassment (as I'm sure you're sat there going "That's all very well and good but-") is booze. Get a few stiff drinks down you and see if everything doesn't seem a bit rosier then.  
_**  
**_(What the hell happened in that supermarket?)

Arthur

_**September 10th  
From Ludwig to Kirkland, A.**_

Arthur,

Sometimes you sound very much like my brother.

Ludwig


	3. Chapter 3

_**September 20**__**th**__**, Derbyshire**_

"And here we are."

Having pulled the Bentley into a parking space on the large, gravelled drive, Alfred turned off the engine and walked up to the house, giving a long, slow whistle. A moment later, Arthur joined him, giving the house a glance as though reacquainting himself with a familiar painting. The American, meanwhile, was busy turning on the spot, taking in the rolling acres of grounds and the sheep that were dotted across their surface as far as the eye could see.

"I know," Arthur said with a note of pride in his voice, "It's not bad, is it?"

Alfred felt a little too much like a tourist as he approached the old country house. Looking at it closely, he sensed how the lines of carefully cut stones hinted at ages and eras gone by, similarly to how Arthur revealed his age through little slips in his vocabulary or dress. The clean, brown stones and the many windows glowed golden in the autumnal light.

"It's Pemberley," Arthur said, surprising Alfred by hooking his arm through the American's and leading him towards a small black gateway.

"It's what?"

"Pemberley. Mr Darcy's house in "Pride and Prejudice". They've used this house in a couple of productions."

The entrance they were taking, Alfred soon saw, lead to the house's well maintained lawns – "the gardens" Arthur explained. The pair wandered away from the statue-covered lawns and instead made their way amongst the trees and shrubs further from the house, coming across rocky waterfalls and bamboo plants that put Alfred more in mind of an English jungle than a garden, a messy but attractive sprawl of native and foreign flora.

Having come across a secluded spot, the pair sat down upon an elaborate, canopied bench and were silent for a time. At length, Alfred gave a little laugh. The Englishman, clearly rousing himself from a sleepy reverie, looked at him askance.

"Did you get to that one team building exercise yet? The one with the blind folds and the land mines? If you don't do that one at the Conference, I'll be seriously disappointed."

Arthur frowned for a moment, "Oh, you mean those books? No, it doesn't ring a bell."

"Come on," The American elbowed his side admonishingly, "Don't leave all the planning to the last minute, get reading and doing stuff. Just get it over with."

The other man's reaction rather surprised him, coming out as it did sharply and tetchily.

"Yes, yes, alright," Arthur leaned away from Alfred's jabbing elbow, "I will. Just lay off it alright?"

Alfred gave a bemused smile and shrug in return, "Sure. I was just saying. It's in the book with that man on the cover with a grin half the size of his face."

"I see."

When no further comment seemed forth coming from the Englishman, Alfred went on on a different tact.

"Am I your Mr Darcy?"

The new train of thought seemed to propel Arthur a little, causing him to shake his head in despair, "Not even close. And I'm not your Elizabeth," after a pause, he added pensively, "If anything, I'm _your_ Mr Darcy and you're _my _Elizabeth."

"What? Why am I the girl?"

"Oh grow up," Arthur smirked, before letting the expression fade into what looked like weariness, "The comparison is less flattering for me."

"How?"

"It means that I'm aloof and come across as arrogant without meaning to," Arthur said quietly, eyes focused on the river that was winding across the field stretched before them, "Whilst you, Elizabeth, are left to judge me as cruel and proud because I don't allow you to see who I truly am."

Alfred felt himself shiver a little at either the import of the words or their tone, "I guess there might be something in that. Or at least, in the past there was. Stuff's changed now. Pride and Prejudice has a happy ending right? You turn out to not to be a total jackass, and the same goes for me too," he rested against Arthur's shoulder. The man in turn leant against the arm of the bench and closed his eyes, almost catnapping.

"So."

"So," Arthur echoed back to him lazily.

"You and Francis, huh?"

Arthur's eyes slit open, a queasy look in them, "Me and Francis what exactly?"

"You screwed around?"

The Englishman's whole posture became uneasy and tensed, "It's water under the bridge. Really. I'd prefer not to talk about it," he said, placing his arm about Alfred's waist, "I've been around a while, it stands to reason I'll have had a few, encounters, shall we say? I'm sure you have as well."

"But it was _Francis_," A couple of times, Alfred had purposefully attempted to imagine the pair together. He had struggled to understand what combination that would take, where it would have happened and why. What would the two have said to each other? Would it have been loving, or bitter? He wasn't even sure which option was preferably to his own mind, the idea of Arthur fucking with the Frenchman out of some kind of masochistic urge or because he had genuinely harboured feelings for the polar opposite man.

"Yes, it was," Arthur said, "Who would you have had it been, exactly?"

Alfred considered momentarily, "No one. Just me."

"Idiot."

"Aren't you going to ask who mine have been? The people I've been with, I mean."

"No," Arthur pulled himself further upright on the bench, forcing Alfred to sit up and away from him, "No, I really do not want to know." Alfred gave a smile.

"Okay," he joined Arthur in looking out at their surroundings, "So why did you decide to come here, anyway? I mean, I like it. It's... really you. Kind of old but still changing and growing-" his eyes tracked the course of one particular sheep across a field. Arthur studied Alfred with a wry smile.

"Seeing lots of sheep reminds you of me?"

"You know what I mean. These kind of places just, I don't know, they define you. But why take me here and make me go all tourist-y? I could see you twitching when I asked that lady to take photos of us together by the house."

Arthur almost seemed to miss his final words repeating instead with a pleased nod "they define you". He gave a final, firmer nod and looked squarely at Alfred, "I suppose my reason was I wanted to have a reccy for the conference. I'm swayed - I'm going to pull some strings and get this place booked if I can."

They walked back through the gardens together in near silence, Alfred smiling to himself at how he saw Arthur's eyes occasionally darting about to take in the sight of something insignificant such as a leaf or a stone, no doubt certain he saw something supernatural occurring near each item.

"Anything magical 'round these parts?" he asked.

"Of course," Arthur pointed an unwavering finger at a precise spot in mid-air, "There's a lovely little faerie there who is looking utterly taken with you. And, ah, there's another," he gestured lower, "A male one. He seems very unimpressed with both you and her. Let's keep walking, shall we?"

Alfred squinted at thin air in an attempt to see the so-called creatures, "They can't attack, can they?"

"Let's just keep walking, to be on the safe side," Arthur said cheerily, although the American caught sight of the man's quick "shooing" gesture as they strode towards away.

Before they rejoined the main lawns where the soft chatter of other tourists could once again be heard, Arthur held Alfred in place to give him a kiss, fingers stroking down Alfred's cheek. The American closed his eyes and felt the sunshine dappling his eyelids and the dry, chaste touch of the other man's lips, pressing mouthed endearments and sentiments against his own lips. He smiled into the kiss in return.

"Right," Arthur was his usual, gruff self back in the public eye, "My proposal: go back to mine, somehow pull enough strings to get this place booked over the phone, have tea – dinner, I mean, don't pull that face - then shag. Sound like a plan?"

As they made their way back to the car, Alfred spoke up, prompted by the recollection of late night television.

"Hey, where's that lake?"

"What?" Arthur paused in unlocking the driver side door.

"He dives into a lake, right?" At Arthur's blank look, Alfred qualified his question, "Mr Darcy. Where is it? You can't be my Mr Darcy until you do that."

Passing him the car keys in silence, Arthur looked sorely tempted to give the man a single fingered salute.

_**Berlin**_

"So, to access the internet-"

Ludwig threaded his arms through Feliciano's and the Italian continued holding his phone before him by its very edges, watching as Ludwig's fingers tapped at various "buttons" and scrolled over the screen.

"Flip it landscape."

"Huh?"

Ludwig, with a sigh, craned his neck to look around into the Italian's face, attempting to appear disapproving, "Have you been paying any attention?"

"Kind of," Feliciano insisted, "I get that it's difficult, but I don't know _exactly_ what I'm meant to do."

"This could help you to utilise and make the most of any commute time-" the German seemed to realise how bootless his argument was and opted instead to ask, "Is it possible you just asked me to show you how to access the internet because you wanted a hug?"

Feliciano leant back against his lover with a pleased smile, biting at his bottom lip, "Possibly. I checked out the handbook and it looked like the most complicated thing for you to explain," he put the phone away and felt how Ludwig's fingers seemed to be attempting to access the internet on his abdomen instead.

"I don't think you were paying much attention either."

"Oh?" The German asked.

Feliciano pressed back against the man's growing arousal. Ludwig's hands began to clutch instead of stroke, "I just have a hunch," he turned about in Ludwig's arms and stood on tip toe to give the man a hasty kiss before leading him from the hallway into the living room.

"Wait. What are we-"

"Guess."

"But in here?" Ludwig helped Feliciano to shove down his own trousers, almost stumbling as he climbed out of each leg, Feliciano all the while attempting to kiss at his arms and lowered neck between ridding himself of clothes, "Is this wise?"

"Huh?"

"The windowsills, and the skirting board – the paint is still tacky," Feliciano send a despairing look skyward before lying down upon one dust sheet, naked and looking up at Ludwig almost petulantly.

Ludwig swallowed weakly and joined him on the floor.

In the aftermath one freshly painted skirting board was left sporting a large, thumb-print shaped smudge, an old cashmere throw had a long curl of pulled thread where Feliciano had grabbed at it and Ludwig was left grateful for having avoided the trajectory of a painting that had, after a thud to the wall, come free of its tentatively affixed hook to crash down at his side. Feliciano seemed fairly pleased with the chaotic state of affairs and very reluctantly got to his feet to grab an old art book to flick through, balanced on his slightly perspiring stomach.

"Might I borrow your phone?" Ludwig asked the man as he attempted to locate his underwear. eventually spotting them under his dining table.

"Sure," the Italian gestured off under the coffee table where the shiny new phone laid, having taken a tumble from his trouser pocket in their haste, "Why though?"

"Only to send an email."

Feliciano appeared to purse his lips as Ludwig bent down to retrieve the device, "To your brother?"

"No-"

"So to that mystery person then?"

Ludwig gave a frown to mirror Feliciano's, "Yes, actually. I promise, it's not about war. It's just business. It's very dull, just private as well."

Feliciano gave an absent nod as he buried himself once more in his art book.

_** September 25**__**th**__**, London**_

"We're always here," Arthur muttered against Alfred's chest, "Aren't we?"

The American looked out at the blur that was Arthur's bedroom, surprising himself by how well he could identify each shadowy , lumpy outline in the darkness. There were books, of course, but also an old bowler hat hooked over the top of a grandfather clock. Beside his desk stood an electric guitar with two university scarves draped about its slender neck, as well as a pile of papers which he knew to be a combination of the latest broadsheets, tabloids, and some old yellowing pages from eras gone by. Alfred could pick out the smell, somewhere to his right, of what had to be an empty bottle of scotch.

"Always where?"

"Here. The night before you go home or I go home, and we're always quiet."

Arthur having moved away onto his own side of the bed, Alfred rolled onto his side and looked into the man's face, bleary this time from proximity. The shadows forced his frown into greater relief, "I guess we are. I never know what to say."

"Me neither."

"When I was a kid, you would just go, wouldn't you? I remember one time you said you were going for a walk, then next week I got a letter saying business had called you back home."

"There's no good way of saying goodbye," the Englishman said, his fingers writing shapes and letters onto the bedcovers, "So I suppose I thought not even attempting to was hardly that much worse," he reached out in the darkness and stroked Alfred's cheek, hand straying to hold the back of the man's neck carefully as he murmured the words, "Goodbye, Alfred."

The American gave an uncomfortable wriggle, pulling out from under the touch, "Hey! I'm not dying tomorrow!"

"Keep your voice down. These old terraces might have stone walls but you are quite loud," Arthur whispered; he went on to shrug, "My point exactly, though. Goodbyes just never sound right."

"They can sound better than that," the other man insisted stubbornly. He tucked himself into Arthur's body, head on his shoulder, a leg hooked over Arthur's, meshing them together so that Alfred could feel the warm of the other man's skin and breath.

"I'll see you soon," he said, making sure to smile as he did so, "I promise you that; okay? So 'bye for now."

There was a pause in which he felt, heard and sensed the Englishman's breath catch in chest, "Yes. Okay; bye." the man's hand stroked down his spine, causing Alfred to shiver.

"How was that for a goodbye?" he asked quietly.

He felt and sensed, too, how Arthur smiled, "Much better."

_**September 28**__**th**__**, Ottawa**_**  
**  
Matt opened his front door with a confused frown. The frown only grew when he saw his brother on the porch, a six pack of beers in one hand.

"It's time you tried to explain what's so good about hockey again, Matt," the man said, pushing his way past his near-stunned brother into the man's house. Matt continued frowning out into the cool night air.

"Hey. How do you work your microwave?" Alfred's voice wafted back to him from down the corridor, "And have you got popcorn? I want some popcorn – oh and soda. Maybe some fries too-"

With a blink, Matt felt himself come back to his senses. The signs were all there: the invasion of his privacy, the mile a minute speech. His brother was being genial. He shut and locked the door and followed the man back into his kitchen.

"Did it finally happen?" the Canadian asked, "Did you finally eat all the hamburgers in the world so you had to come and raid my freezer?"

"Huh?" Alfred said; the man had nearly climbed inside his freezer in his attempt to hunt down some microwaveable snacks, "Didn't hear that Matt."

"I said, it's been a while since you came by my house, eh?" 2005, to be exact, and that had been to borrow some duct tape to fix a hole in some or other contraption he had been tinkering with.

"Yeah I guess," Alfred re-emerged with fries and flung them in the microwave overly eagerly. After jabbing in some numbers and options (carefully corrected by Matt when Alfred moved over to another counter to hunt down soda) Alfred added, "But it's not a problem, right?"

"It's fine. So," Matt poured them both some lemonade, "How's... stuff?"

"Oh but that's shop talk, I'm not allowed to-" Alfred stopped himself with a puzzled look, as though realising himself and who he was speaking to and considered his brother a little harder as a result, "Wait; nevermind. Forget that. It's good. I was talking to my boss today and some money is slowly starting to trickle through into my economy again. Hopefully everything will be back to one hundred percent awesome in a few years. I'm still incredible now, of course."

"Yeah," Matthew said, the uncertainty in his tone missed by Alfred who piled up both his own and his brother's arms with fries, drinks, some candy he had unearthed and a bag of popcorn. After leading them into the dining room first by mistake, he found the living room and settled himself on the couch, throwing his jacket over its back and ripping open the popcorn bag.

They watched an old game on DVD, Matt trying his best to explain the rules of ice hockey to Alfred, who proceeded to forget them every ten or so minutes, the rest of the time being filled with banal comments such as "Nice weather, right? I mean at my place, not yours." and "Oh hey, check out my new sneakers, they're cool, aren't they?" and "You shouldn't let polar bears in your back yard, seriously," from Alfred.

Matt, well versed in such visits, let the comments wash over him, drinking his beer and just nodding or offering whatever basic, monosyllabic response was required, smiling (but not so much so as to earn himself a punch on the arm for being "sappy") at the unusual turn the evening had taken.

It was straight after a fantastic backhand shot on goal that Alfred spoke up again, his tone identical to that of before.

"This is nice, right?"

"What?" Matt asked, a handful of popcorn halfway to his mouth.

"Us, hanging out. That's what brothers do."

"Sure. Yeah, it's okay," though Matt couldn't help but think that he would be eaten out of house and home if it happened on a regular basis.

"Oh yeah," Alfred added, having sipped some soda, "Arthur and I are in a relationship now. Like, a gay relationship with gay sex and stuff. Pass me some more fries-"

Matt spat his popcorn over the floor.

"Urgh. Matt, you're gross."

**A/N**

"**The Talented Mr Ripley" –** 20th century American crime novel by Patricia Highsmith. Unusual in that it focuses upon the attempts of antihero Ripley to hide his crimes and murders, as opposed to following the efforts of the Law to catch him.

"**Pemberley... Mr Darcy... Elizabeth" –** "Pride and Prejudice", a social commentary, comedy and "romance" by 19th century novelist Jane Austen. Alfred and Arthur visit "Chatsworth House", a large country house in Derbyshire, Central England. The house was used in the 1995 BBC production of "Pride and Prejudice" and also in the 2005 movie. Alfred refers to the infamous scene from the 1995 production in which Darcy dives into a lake in his shirt (a scene suspiciously absent from the novel).

"**Что вы хотите****" - **What do you want?

"**Two old university scarves" –** Oxford and Cambridge scarves

**Bentley – **Think Bond's Bentley in "Thunderball".


	4. Chapter 4

_**October 3**__**rd**__**  
From Alfred Jones to Feliciano!**_

Hey,

How's stuff?

So, I nearly had to do the Heimlich manoeuvre on my brother when I hung out with him the other week (turns out he's the only person who didn't know me and Arthur are together). Before and after the choking incident was fun though, so this email is a thanks for the good advice. It took my mind off stuff.

Any other tips? I'm willing to give anything a try. Arthur's coming over to visit in a week, but if there's any more advice going, lay it on me. I really want to be able to enjoy his visit without constantly thinking about how long it'll be until he has to go back to his place again,

Alfred.

P.S. Off topic I know, and I'm seriously not a pervert or anything but... what _is_ Ludwig like in bed? It's probably better that you know that, well, there's rumours. 

_**October 4**__**th**__**,  
From Feliciano! to Alfred Jones**_

Hi again,

This is fun, isn't it? We're like pen pals or something. I was pen pals with Lovino for a while when we were kids but his letters were just scribbled notes – with lots of cussing in them - so we didn't write much. Plus his letters always smelt like tomatoes, which was actually quite nice I guess. I'm really glad that you're feeling happier (sorry about your brother though).

I'm well, and so is Ludwig. It's our anniversary soon. I'm looking forward to that; I want to make a really special meal, maybe a risotto. Hopefully I will have finished painting in the living room/dining room by then as well, so it'll look as good as the food. I've also been out with Francis a lot recently; we went shopping in Paris. Ludwig's been kind of busy with work you see, though I don't know what work it is. It sounds boring, though.

I had another thought about what you could do to make the time pass more happily while you and Arthur are apart. One major part of a relationship is emotions but it's wrong to ignore the physical side. I guess it kind of adds insult to injury if you're away from each other and you're not getting any sex either.

So, how about doing something about that? Um, I don't mean go to a prostitute or cheat or anything, just think of some ways of enjoying yourselves (and enjoying each other) at a distance. Any ideas you try out can't really make things any worse for you both.

Remember, if you're ever in Europe, come and pay a visit, it's been some time since I've seen you too! If you can't make it, I guess I'll see you at Arthur's World Conference weekend. Do you have any idea what kind of thing he has planned for that, by the way?

Let me know how things go,

Feliciano

P.S.

Huh? What kind of rumours about Ludwig? I spread a few myself - he's really cute when he blushes and that kind of stuff makes him turn really tomato red. I have to make sure Antonio's never around when he's really embarrassed though or he'd fall for him.

I guess, in a few words, Ludwig in bed is: thorough, energetic and gentlemanly.

Ciao! 

_**October 11**__**th**__**, NYC**_

Arthur gave his rollercase a kick and at last it submitted and let itself be wheeled down into the arrivals hall. He cast a look about the vast vestibule, finally spotting a tallish, well built blonde man whose glasses glinted in the artificial light. Looking down, he noticed the man was holding up a piece of paper on which the name "Mr Kirkland" was scrawled. Arthur crossed the distance to his side.

"Very clever."

"Didn't want you to get lost. You always look real confused when you travel," Alfred said, taking the case from Arthur after some protesting from the man and dragging it behind himself more by force than by its castors, the fabric scratching against the floor, "Was the flight okay?"

"As alright as they ever are," Arthur picked up his pace to keep up with the American's long legged strides, "And yourself? How're you?"

"No change from when we talked ten hours ago," Alfred grinned, slowing down a little as he saw Arthur lagging, "How about I carry you instead of the case?"

"I'll be fine. Easier flying this way than it is for you coming to mine."

"No way. I'm awesome, flying doesn't affect me."

Arthur smirked, "Remember that week when I had some work on and you said you'd entertain yourself for the first day? I walked in on you looking mortified, having watched five solid hours of Big Brother because you didn't have enough energy to go looking for the remote control."

"I bet I could sue you for defamation of character or something because of that bag of lies." Alfred ended his sentence by giving a sharp, crisp whistle, waving at a taxi pulling up by the airport entrance.

"Warn a bloke before you do that," the explosive taxi hail seemed to destroy the remnants of Arthur's stubborn avowal of being awake and alert. The Englishman all but let Alfred pick him up to stow on the back seat of the cab like an awkwardly shaped piece of luggage. Once there, Arthur's head flopped against one window, eyelids half-mast.

He watched the sights whizz by, mind registering them in simplistic terms such as quantity, light and movement. Eventually, the man's eyes flickered closed and he listened instead to the mutter from the poorly tuned car radio and to the babble of talk exchanged by Alfred and the taxi driver, a lazy smile growing on his face as he heard Alfred's own voice develop a slight New Yorker edge the deeper into the debate he got. It felt like only a matter of seconds later to Arthur when the American tapped his shoulder. Eyes cracking open heavily he saw a huge, gleaming apartment building climbing upward into the sky out of the cab window.

Propped up once again by his lover, Arthur let himself be ferried from the shining lobby lift to the man's penthouse suite, which the American managed to let them into, juggling the luggage and Arthur to get to his keys. Inside, Alfred dragged the suitcase into his bedroom and headed back over to the kitchen.

"Go sit down in the living room, you look like a zombie."

"Oh thanks," Arthur did so all the same, stretching out on the oversized cushions and looking at the view beyond the floor length windows in total silence.

"Want some coffee? Black with sugar might give you a kick in the pants."

"Urgh, no, I can't imagine drinking that right now. No, I'm fine," the Englishman sat up a little straighter as though to prove his point, "Really."

The kettle hissed steam, there was a clink of crockery and a moment later Alfred was sat beside him, drinking deeply from a mug of black coffee. He held the mug out to Arthur, who, after an initial shake of his head, took a sip, pulling a face and scowling afterwards, eyes still trained on the harbour.

"You're transfixed," Alfred laughed, toeing off his shoes so he could tuck his legs under himself, trying to follow the line of Arthur's gaze to spot what had so caught the man's attention, "You've seen all this before."

"It's still stunning though," Arthur said, sleepy enough to miss how the American looked openly touched at the words, "God, you're just ridiculously big though aren't you?"

"Hey. No fat jokes; I work out. I can eat hamburgers if I work out."

"No, not fat, just... Well, I can get 'round my place in a matter of days. No wonder I got lost when I came here that first time."

Alfred chuckled into his mug. Placing it empty on the coffee table, he noted, "You walked past me five times."

"Hm?" Arthur raised an eyebrow at him.

"When you landed," Alfred explained softly, choosing to look at his ceiling high, wall length DVD collection as he spoke, "That first time. I was hiding in some tall grass or something," he tried to bring the memory back a little clearer, "And I saw you walk past like five or six times. You were definitely walking 'round in circles."

"Probably," Arthur joined him in studying the DVDs, looking slightly disbelieving at the sheer volume of cases, "That lot reminds me, I bought you a copy of that British slasher film set in the countryside with all those people getting their heads and spines chopped to bits by a farmer," he said, "and Hot Fuzz, as well. I don't know if you have that one."

"What's that?"

"Buddy cop film. Action comedy," Arthur said with a wide-mouthed yawn, "Guns, more guns, jokes, shooting two guns whilst jumping through the air."

"Cool," Alfred watched as Arthur blinked his eyes repeatedly in some vain attempt to keep alert, "C'mon. You're beyond being saved by coffee. We'll leave the movies to another night. Let's go lie down and relax."

"Fine."

Getting to his feet, Alfred spoke up thoughtfully, "I don't even have anything planned for this week. Any ideas? We could go to Times Square, maybe. Or maybe just hang out somewhere quieter, like Top of the Rock or some random diner? And there's always the ferry."

"I don't need to go sight-seeing, really," Arthur said, both pleasantly and sleepily, "I can't even remember the last time I took you on a proper tour of London. I... I just want to spend as much time as I can with you, not spend time buying "I love NY" t-shirts."

"Technically you_ do_ love NY," Alfred pointed out with a lopsided smile, "You should get one."

"I want to spend as much time as I can with you knowing that, should I feel an overwhelming desire to, I can grope you without causing a scene."

"Okay, fair call," Alfred pulled the other man to his feet and kissed him, fingers hooking under the bottom of Arthur's sweater. He pulled it off, Arthur holding up his arms limply to aid him, and dropped it over the back of the sofa, hands stroking down Arthur's sides for a moment before letting go and taking one of his hands instead to lead him by. Once in the bedroom, he threw the Englishman an old, baggy football jersey, "To relax in," he explained as he flipped the blinds closed, "So you don't have to go digging around in your suitcase for your PJs."

Arthur struggled out of his jeans and into the top. It swamped him to no little extent, brushing the tops of his knees.

"I'm sure I must look very sexy in this," he mumbled into the pillow as he flopped onto the bed, lying on top of the covers.

"Definitely. Gimme a second and I'll come over and pinch your ass," Alfred said, changing into some jogging bottoms and a vest top. When he reached the bed, the Englishman was already snoring.

"... Damn jet lag," Alfred sighed. With careful, incremental tugs he freed the covers from beneath Arthur and pulled them up and over him, before climbing in the bed himself and giving the man's forehead a quick kiss.

"I missed you," he told Arthur's peaceful looking expression, the man's eyebrows raised almost as though surprised, mouth a little agape. Alfred reached out and turned out the light with a smile. 

_**October 12**__**th**__**, NYC**_

"How about that thing where everyone has to hold hands in a tangled up circle and then another person has to try and help them get unknotted? That's fun, everyone'll just end up in a pile on the floor – but wait, Francis might try it on with everyone then-"

"Alfred, shut up."

"Oh, wait, what about that one stupid game – human bingo? You know, where you have to go around and talk to everyone else in the group and find people who have "eaten a guava fruit" or whatever, so you can check that off your "bingo card"?"

Arthur focused his attention on the view of Manhattan stretched before them across the waters, hands grasping the railing of the ferry.

"You could have categories like "favours neutrality" or "was a dickwad of a communist"," Alfred said, giving his city a little look himself.

"Alfred. Shut. Up," Arthur said tersely, reluctantly looking away from the shore to the American, "I'm not pissing about. I'm on holiday, I don't want to be thinking about the bloody conference, alright?"

The American seemed a little taken aback, the corners of his mouth threatening to curl in a confused smile, "Fine. Don't get your panties in a bunch."

The pair went back to studying the view in silence for a while, Arthur aware of how Alfred was pursing his lips as though to continue speaking, either to apologise, to question him or to give yet more suggestions for "team and relationship building activities". Arthur let the familiar sensation of the sea beneath his feet let the churning contents of his mind resettle.

"Sorry," he said, a little grudgingly, "Perhaps they were a little... bunched," he took a bite of his near forgotten hotdog and chewed on it thoughtfully, "I've thought of somewhere I want to go, if you're interested."

The American smiled with what seemed like relief, "Sure. Where?"

"I want to go to the old CBGB's building; I should pay my respects," Arthur said with a sad sigh. Alfred gave the man a little shove in the arm.

"You seriously are a delinquent, aren't you?" 

_**October 16**__**th**__**, Berlin  
**_  
"And this one?" Ludwig asked, gritting his teeth over the tingle that ran through his numbing arms, held as they were above his head.

"Over to the left a little."

"Okay, so here?"

"No, too far," Feliciano said thoughtfully, "Back a little."

"Here then."

"That's too far, back left again."

Ludwig gave the wall a look he felt too rude to shoot at Feliciano, "Here?"

Feliciano considered in silence for a good while before saying, uncertainly, "Yeah. There."

"Pass me the hammer?"

A minute later and Ludwig had knocked the nail into the wall and a small, golden hook was left on the new, green paint.

"Two left!" Feliciano said cheerfully behind him, taking back the hammer and passing the man a smaller, empty picture frame to hold. "This one needs to be lower down, around," the Italian gestured vaguely to a patch of wall, "there."

Ludwig started manoeuvring the latest frame about, being guided by Feliciano wafting his hands about unhelpfully. It was as Feliciano began treating the placing of the frame as a game of hide and seek, using terms such as "warmer" and "no, colder!" to "help" the German that his Blackberry vibrated in his pocket. The unexpected sensation caused him to lower the frame and reach instinctively into his pocket to check the phone's display.

"What is it? Work?"

"No, just an email."

Feliciano took the frame from his loose grasp and attempted to peer into the screen of the phone, his expression growing stony when the German moved it purposefully out of his sight.

"Why can't you just tell me who it is?"

"I told you, I promised. It's nothing important, I just made a promise to keep our dialogue to myself."

Feliciano's eyes moved to take in the sight of the picture hooks gracing the wall, "But I'm your boyfriend. Doesn't that mean something too?"

Ludwig frowned, looking up from his phone in bewilderment, "Of course it does," he put the phone away and held out his arms demonstratively, "I've lost all feeling in my arms because of you, _for_ you. Doesn't that mean something?"

A smile seems to sneak across the Italian's features and he bent down so as to give both of Ludwig's upper arms a gentle kiss.

"Yes," the pair looked back at their decorating project.

"It's coming along," Ludwig noted and the Italian gave a nod.

"Yeah. I guess this room is nearly finished. I have a few other ideas though."

"Oh." Ludwig's tone was equal parts confusion and dread.


	5. Chapter 5

_**October 19**__**th**__**, NYC**_

"Cellphone?"

"Yes," Arthur patted his jeans pocket.

"House keys?"

He patted the other one, "Yes."

"Ticket?" The man held out his wallet to show the American.

"Check. I've got it all, promise," the Englishman pulled on his blazer, "And if I haven't, it's tough luck isn't it? I'm sure you could always bring anything I do forget with you when you come for the conference."

Alfred walked up to his lover and buttoned his jacket for him, smiling as he did so. Once done, he gave the man's breast a pat, feeling both the expected thin frame beneath the fabric and an unusual resistance under his palm. He leant forward to whisper in the man's ear.

"Are you happy to see me or is that a..." he stumbled mid-suavity, "Actually," he patted the breast of Arthur's jacket again and got a better idea of the lumpy shape of the hard bump there, "What the hell _is_ that? Shit, you're not going to do a hit on me, are you?"

"How on earth could that have been me "happy to see you"?" Arthur said, putting his hand into an inner pocket and pulling out what appeared to be, on inspection by the American, a small, carefully wrapped present.

"A boy can dream."

"Or be insanely delusional, apparently."

"So," Alfred alternated between looking at Arthur, then looking at the gift like a dog waiting for a treat, "Is that for me?"

Arthur appeared to be studying the gift as well, as though uncertain what it contained, holding it delicately and smoothing creases out of the crinkled paper. "Go on then," he said, pressing it into Alfred's hand where it only just filled his palm, "Open it. I kept forgetting to give it to you."

Upon looking at the paper more closely, Alfred realised that its scrawling pattern was actually a looping, intricate mesh compromising of two words: "Happy Birthday". He kept quiet, but the sentiment echoed in his head as he ripped at the paper.

"I don't know if you'll want them," Arthur said, softly, "I just stumbled across them in the loft, and well – it's not a rocket, or a jeep, or anything exciting like that so-"

"I know what it is," Alfred said, albeit to himself. He tore away the last of the paper and looked down at the two red-coated toy soldiers cradled in his palm. Both had carefully painted features – _They're hand painted and hand turned, so you'll never find another set exactly as these are. Be gentle with them, Alfred, if you care for them_ – the one had sky blue eyes and the slightest of smiles, the other thicker eyebrows, green eyes and a more severe expression.

"Thanks," he murmured.

"I know it's a bit stupid," Arthur said, shifting about awkwardly, "I don't even know what happened to the rest of them, I couldn't find them up there whilst I was having my clear-out. Still, have them if you want."

He had taken the toys with him to burn them, the night of his independence. When he had opened the box, however, Alfred recalled how he had only been disappointed not to find the figure with the green eyes. He had shoved the rest of the set into his storage space instead where had forgotten all about it, dust gathering in each carefully turned fold of the soldiers' coats and the brims of their hats.

After a little thought, he placed the pair of soldiers side by side on his coffee table, tilted inward as though casting glances at each other from the corners of their eyes. He turned back to the Englishman and kissed him afterwards, backing him up against one wall, Arthur's arms working about his waist as he did so.

"You can be kind of romantic and sweet sometimes," Alfred admitted, earning him a bright red flush from the Englishman and a slap on the arm.

"Oi. Don't poke fun."

"I'm not," he said, a smile playing on his lips, "Really."

Arthur looked even more mortified at the admission and slapped him a little harder, "Then don't be so honest. It makes me nervous."

"Fine. Then how about I make everything even by giving you a gift too?" he ran into his bedroom as he spoke, "A "have a good trip" present in exchange for a birthday present, yeah?" he came back with Arthur's suitcase, causing the man to frown, "It's in there. Open it when you get back to London."

"I still can't understand how it's already time to go," the man said. Alfred made an effort to smile as he reached out to hold the man again for a moment as he told him, happily, "But I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Okay," Arthur kissed him hard and long enough so that Alfred caught a taste of the bagel the man had reluctantly eaten for lunch, "You know," the Englishman said afterwards, grabbing the handle of his rollercase, "I really do think you're much better at farewells than me." 

_**October 19**__**th**__**, London**_

Upper body slumped over the surface of his cluttered desk, Arthur scarcely waited for his phone to stop ringing before he told it, in a pained mumble that "his head felt as though a pig had shat in it."

"Hey. You're a real delight."

"God I hate flying. Whatever happened to bloody boats? Damn Wright brothers," Arthur gave a half yawn, half lion's roar, "I'm calling to say good night."

"Okay. Night. Sleep well."

"No worries on that score. I'll be sleeping like a bloody log... and I'll be doing so in that jersey."

Alfred's tone was a combination of shock and suspicion, "Seriously? Have I finally gotten you out of those PJs?"

"Not forever. And Alfred, come on, you've gotten me out of my PJs before. Many times. And out of my trousers, shorts, pants, kilts..."

"Do you like it, the jersey?"

"I'm going to sound like an utter softie, but I like it because it's you-shaped," Arthur said in something of a mutter, plucking at the fabric of the shirt, "And it's quite a breathable fabric. So it's practical too."

"Sure it is," Alfred's tone held laughter in it, "Anyway, it's special."

"Looks fairly mass produced and Yao-worthy to me."

"No, not like it's a special manufacture. I was wearing that when – wait, okay, I've never told anyone this. Haven't you ever wondered why my toaster never burns stuff?"

"I can't say that's ever crossed my mind, no."

"Oh. Well, it doesn't. Ever. And that's because I invented the perfect toaster. It's a state secret though so if you tell anyone-"

"Yes yes, instant death, etc etc," Arthur said, his heavy eyelids drooping even further.

"Just makin' sure. I was wearing that shirt when I thought of the idea and when I built the prototype. So it's a lucky jersey."

Arthur considered Alfred's words before sitting up again, as straight-backed as he could manage in order for him to speak in a clearer and crisper voice, ""I'll love you, dear; I'll love you 'til China and Africa meet, and the river jumps over the mountain and the salmon sing in the street."

"Geez. Poetry? Get to bed or I'll open up a can of "instant death, etc etc" on your ass. Oh, and I love you too, okay?"

_**  
**__**October 22**__**nd**__**, Berlin**_

"Ja? Sweetheart?"

"Ludwig, Ludwig!"

"I am at work," Ludwig bent his head and the phone a little closer to the keyboard in an attempt to pick up the sounds of his single-handed typing.

"Guess what though, guess what though?" said the Italian, undeterred.

Ludwig gave his in-tray a sorry little look, "I don't know what Feliciano. I am _very_ busy-"

"I'm naked."

"Oh. I see."

"Want me to tell you what I'm doing?"

"What _are_ you doing? Is it important?" Ludwig said, scrawling a note on a Post-It and slapping it onto his desktop, "Could you tell me when I get home?"

"Eh, but that would be like a phone sex answer machine message."

Ludwig stared hard at the database on his screen as though the data contained within it was of a philosophical import, "I... I think I understand what you're getting at."

"I thought I was being really clear. So, anyway, I'm hard."

Ludwig grabbed his suit jacket, flung it on hastily, passing his phone back and forth between his hands as he did so. He quickly wrote on one last Post-It which he stuck hastily to his door as he left the office, letting anyone curious know that he would be "back in ten".

"Okay so I'm just stroking my dick."

"Wait wait wait," Ludwig snapped, taking the stairs two at a time and charging down a corridor, "Not yet!"

"Huh? Can't you just-"

"At my desk? I told you – that rumour that I work for a BDSM video mail-order company is a lie!" once situated in a stall of an empty bathroom, he let out a sigh and let his free hand unbutton and work down his suit trousers and briefs, "Right. Now."

"So I'm still hard," Feliciano said cheerfully, "What do you want me to do?"

"Huh," Ludwig paused, hand wrapped tentatively about his own growing erection, "...Jerk off?"

"How?"

The German sat down on the lid of the toilet and leant back as he began to stroke himself in a slow, measured rhythm, "I-I don't know. Hard. Jerk off really-"

"What are you doing?" Feliciano asked, changing tact, his voice so gentle Ludwig almost imagined he felt the man's breath against his skin, "Are you already hard?"

"Yes," Ludwig breathed out the word, hips pistoning at the sound of the man's voice, "Yeah I am."

"And what are you doing? Are you doing that thing I do?"

The German swallowed weakly, letting his hand stray to cup and fondle his balls instead, biting down on a moan as he did so.

"Ludwig? You there? Talk to me."

"Yes. I'm-I'm doing that," Ludwig said, voice huskier from the effort to keep from moaning aloud, "Pinch your nipples."

"Okay," he heard how the Italian smiled, "Ah, okay yeah I am. That feels nice," Ludwig closed his eyes, eyebrows raised at how overwhelming the sound of the man's voice was, whispering and sweet. A hot, shock of pleasure ran through him from head to foot as the Italian moaned down the line.

"Ludwig. Oh you feel good-"

"Shit, Feliciano. Okay. Okay," Ludwig said, practically panting for breath and speech, "I'll say "now" and then you can jerk off. Everything I say "now", you can stroke yourself, okay?"

The man seemed to half whimper, half hum at the idea, "Okay."

Ludwig planted his feet a little further apart on the floor, hand wrapping about himself firmly.

"Now."

"Ah-"

"Now," he let the gentle tick of his watch be a guide for the pace, though he desperately wished to let one command run into the next.

It was at 5.32, the second hand at 38 that Ludwig found release, eyes closing tight and mouth clamped close in an effort to keep quiet. On the other end of the line he heard the beautifully musical sound of Feliciano finding his own release, a series of whimpers and moans that made Ludwig's pleasure seem that much stronger, leaving him shaking.

The Italian was the first to speak up, but his words caused Ludwig to frown as he cleaned himself up with one unsteady hand and then grab at his underwear and creased trousers.

"Happy Anniversary. I love you," the man said, in a voice that held within in the same notes of love and affection that his previous moans had.

"Oh. Yes," it didn't take Ludwig long to realise that the man must be referring to another date, one from their childhood – their first kiss, perhaps, "Happy Anniversary. I'm sorry I'll be home so late."

"It's okay," Feliciano said, and Ludwig could hear how the man was making an effort to be cheerful, "That's why I rang."

"Thanks. I love you too," the German said, firmly, "We'll do something this weekend."

"It's fine, really. You... you don't remember, do you?"

Ludwig flushed the used tissues down the toilet, waiting until the noise of the water had subsided before continuing, regretfully, "No. I'm sorry. Feliciano, I need to get back to work-"

"Okay. I don't want you getting into trouble. I'll see you later. Ti amo."


	6. Chapter 6

**Dating Advice for Germans and Americans Ch3c of 8**

_**October 24th  
From Alfred Jones to Kirkland, A. **_

Hey.

READ THIS AT HOME. NOT ON THE TUBE OR IN A MEETING OK?

V

V

V

V

V

V

OK.

So. I'm in your bed, and you walk in and I'm just lying under the covers. You think I'm asleep, so you climb on to the bed beside me to read or whatever. Then, I turn and press up against you. I'm hard. I can feel you tense up next to me. You're not sure what to do.

That's okay though because I am awake. I rub up against you through the sheets (against your leg) and you start to whimper a little. I can hear it. You're having a meltdown trying to decide whether you should wake me up, or maybe just grope me or walk out of the room.

"I'm up," I say. I probably snigger.

Next thing you know, you're naked too (oh, yeah, I'm naked under the sheets, forgot to say) and I'm whispering for you to get on your hands and knees. You don't look like you'll be able to stay on all fours for long, you're shaking and your dick has already gone really hard. I don't touch it though.

I prep you and I just tease you by rubbing myself against your ass; you keep rubbing back and you're saying all those kind of things that you'll deny afterwards. I finally push in and I ride you hard

(BRB)

Yeah, so, where was I? Oh yeah, I ride you hard and you're keening right? You're panting and begging me to touch you, so much that your voice has gone up a little. I don't. Your arms are buckling and you just grab onto the mattress, leaning down. That angle feels really good so I cum, hard. All I need to do then is gently stroke one finger along your dick and you cum too.

Later,

Alfred.

_**October 24**__**th**__**,  
From Kirkland, A. to Alfred Jones**_

Um.

I beg your pardon?

Arthur.

_  
__**October 25**__**th**__**,  
From Alfred Jones to Kirkland, A.**_

Hey,

You didn't read it at work, did you? I warned you not to in the subject line and everything.

I thought maybe we should send each other dirty emails. I don't know about you but I get sick of my right hand sometimes. It's good to write that stuff out and think that you're reading it and probably jacking off too. I know you're too prim and proper to wanna jerk off on webcam or something,

Later,

Alfred. 

_**October 25**__**th**__**,  
From Kirkland A. to Alfred Jones**_

Hello,

I see. Might have wanted to preface the first email with that explanation. I thought I'd gotten a really elaborate psychic porn spam email.

Call me paranoid but I really hope no one can access these emails surreptitiously, they're exceptionally vulgar at times (Left hand, not right, by the way), though that one is by far and away the worse of the bunch, of course. I figured out how to create a password protected folder called "Accounts" to put all the blue emails in. The normal ones go in my "AFJ CORRESP" folder. Currently, the ratio of emails in each is 1:3 but it's closing quickly.

I'll, er, see what I can do about a "dirty email" in return. I find the whole idea a little worrying,

Yours,

Arthur

_  
__**October 26**__**th**__**,  
From Alfred Jones to Kirkland, A.**_

Hey ,

"AFJ CORRESP"? Wow, I feel loved. Your emails are just in my normal inbox. But seriously, if I scroll down there's like 10 that aren't from you in the last fortnight. I need a life.

SEND ME A DIRTY EMAIL. I can't imagine what your dirty emails would be like. I think maybe I'll know when you try, because I'll look out over the Atlantic and just see tons of smoke and steam billowing because you'll have combust.

I'm going to make a folder for the dirty stuff too after I send this. I'll name it "PORN".

Later,

Alfred. 

_**October 26**__**th**__**, Berlin**_

In spite of Ludwig's best efforts to make amends for his long hours at work, including taking Feliciano on countless trips to the DIY store and to the market, matters continued to feel strained between the two to the German. Granted, Feliciano wasn't being intentionally cold or unpleasant in any way, but the man's usual energy and vivacity seemed stifled. Unusually, it seemed to be Ludwig, not Feliciano, who initiated any sexual activities and, most telling of all, at night whilst drifting to sleep the Italian would clamp a hand on top of Ludwig's about his own stomach, keeping Ludwig so firmly wrapped about himself that the German found it hard to get comfortable and to fall to sleep himself.

After another night of interrupted sleep and a day at work disconcertingly left _uninterrupted_ by Feliciano, Ludwig returned home feeling out of sorts, his collar rubbing at his neck and his shoes feeling too tight though both garments were the same as ever. Shucking off his suit jacket, he made his way to the bedroom to change into something more casual, head bowed and eyes focused on the details of a few scheduled meetings on the planner of his Blackberry.

As a result, he sensed as opposed to saw the changes made to the room upon first entering. Out of the very edges of his vision, his mind registered how things were different colours and different shapes to what was expected. Ludwig's head shot up and found what was, for all intents and purposes, a double camp bed of military issue in place of his own steel framed bed. Below, the carpet was – well, the carpet was simply no more, he realised as he slipped off his shoes, looking down for the first time at the bare floorboards that had clearly always been hidden by his plush, black carpet.

A somewhat ordered pile of his own clothes was heaped in one corner, and a portable clothes rail crammed with his suits also made him realise that his plain white wardrobe was nowhere to be seen. Indeed, as far as he could tell, the only item of furniture left unchanged in the room was his innocuous bedside table, still stood complete with alarm clock beside the army cot.

Throwing on some jeans, he left the room with purpose, pulling on a t-shirt as he went.

"Feliciano?" There was no reply. Ludwig sped up, yanking down his t-shirt fully as he peered into the bathroom and his study. He found the man at last out in the garden, sat on a recliner, a glass of wine in hand. The man failed to turn and face him, instead simply lifting up a hand to wave back at him.

"Feliciano."

"Hey. How was work?"

"What have you done with the bedroom? Where did that _bed_ come from?" Ludwig asked, circling the garden furniture to stand in front of Feliciano and look down at the man. Reluctantly, it appeared, Feliciano glanced up to meet the look, setting down his glass.

"Oh. I ordered some furniture, and I have a beautiful old bed frame. I'm going to have it delivered some time. I found the army cot in your attic, Gilbert said he remembered owning one still."

Ludwig frowned at how frank the answer was, whilst failing to touch on or dismiss any of his concerns: it was, he realised, a rather blasé response.

"Did you not think that perhaps you should ask me first?"

Curiously, the Italian seemed to bristle at the words, "Not really. Why? Should I have?"

"Well-"

Feliciano overrode him, "You did say that this is my home as well. So, I can change things if I want to, right?"

"Yes," Ludwig agreed, uneasily, "But I would have liked a say."

"I asked you if I could bring over some of my things and you said yes."

"I didn't imagine you would bring over a bed."

"Then this isn't my house," Feliciano said coolly, taking another sip of his wine, "If I need planning permission to make things look better."

Part, indeed, a large majority of Ludwig's mind was telling him to simply appease the man, to apologise for any wrong-doings on his own part and to move past (or at least ignore) the issue at hand. Unprompted, Arthur's suggestion of "pressing Feliciano's buttons" came to mind, however, and although it went against his instincts to do so, Ludwig folded his arms and considered his lover equally coolly. The other man looked at him uncertainly.

"I own this house. You can make changes if I give you permission. It _is_ your home as well because I give you permission to consider it such," he lied, surprising himself with how assured he sounded.

"Oh," Feliciano stood up and looked at Ludwig with distaste, it appeared, "Okay. Fine. So should I stop what I'm doing? Leave you to fix it all exactly like you like it?"

Almost shaking with the awkwardness and discomfort he felt at purposefully picking the fight, Ludwig narrowed his eyes at Feliciano, "What do you mean by that?"

Pushing past the German to re-enter the house, Feliciano gave a mutter, "I mean that you're controlling? That you have to have everything just so. You can't just _be_, sometimes, can you?"

During Ludwig's silence, Feliciano glanced back at the man and they shared a look, Feliciano taking in the sight of Ludwig's thinly veiled hurt with obvious confusion, "Well?"

"Finish the work you've started, and then no more," Ludwig said, roughly, "And I'm cooking tonight."

"Fine," Feliciano said, "I'll just finish those jobs and be done." He sat down on the sofa rather than sprawl out on its length, limbs akimbo, as was usual for him Ludwig noticed out of the corners of his eyes as he moved about the kitchen. Indeed, the man was hunched forward, gnawing on his thumbnail in silence, eyes tracking Ludwig's movements as he moved about the kitchen as though uncertain of what the German was doing or where he was going, "Hey, Ludwig?"

"Yes?"

"I love you, okay? So much."

Ludwig turned around and frowned at his lover. He gave a nod, "I know. And I love you."

"Yeah," the Italian forced a smile, "Okay. I'm hungry though, so make me something good, okay?" 

_**October 27**__**th**__**,  
From: Kirkland, A to Jones, Alfred F.**_

"Oh. Hey. It's me, Al-"

And that's when I open the front door and your eyes widen.

"What-"

"Don't you like it?" I ask, adjusting my eyepatch and giving you a leer, "I thought this would have been right up your street, since you spent so many years wearing chaps."

"Um."

"Come inside," I smirk. You hobble in and stand, back to one wall of the hallway, looking me over like I'm a particularly delectable hamburger (couldn't resist). Your eyes seem to rivet on the "v" of bare skin showing through the loose criss-cross of laces at the neck of my shirt and also on my long, black boots, again elaborate, with gleaming buckles and countless eyelets.

"You're a pirate," you say, at last, swallowing weakly.

"Of course," I say. I place my tricorne on your head and lean in to give you a kiss, one hand resting against the wall above your head to keep you in your place, "What else would you have me be?"

You push the hat back a little so that you can get a better purchase on my mouth, your hands reaching out now to twist and wind in the strings of my shirt. Your fingers brush again my flesh.

"Lost your tongue?"

"No. No way. I'm just... Why?"

"Does there have to be a reason?" I brush a fleck of dust from my coat, "Puts me in mind of buggery," I look you over, "Lucky you're here then, eh?"

You appear to be running on auto-pilot: your hands unbutton your trousers and fumble with the zip, whilst your eyes still seem to be struggling to understand exactly what's going on.

I take off my coat, let it fall onto the floor, then push down my trousers and pants, leaning against one wall, legs spread as far as I can, half-dressed. I hear your breath catch.

"But-"

"I knew you were coming," I say, simply, and you run a hand down my backside. You slide one finger in uncertainly and find no resistance. A second slides into the slick hole easily. Your breath hitches and your other hand grabs at my arse possessively.

"Just get on and bugger me already," I hiss. I hear you shove your trousers down fully and then you're there. Oh, you're there. You took it to heart when I said I was prepared, I realise, and you just push straight in to the hilt and I feel you, every ridge and every vein. You stroke up against that spot inside and my knees threaten to buckle, my boots cutting into the flesh of my legs as I brace myself further. I can feel you flush to my backside, can feel your hands gaining purchase on my waist, while one hand comes around to stroke at the head of my cock. I bite down on a moan.

You've thrown the tricorne on the floor at some point, but I didn't even notice when. The pace you set is... curious. It is not rhythmic, but rather it is made up of stops and start, long thrusts, longer pauses that make me come close to begging you to just fuck me right into the bloody masonry. Then it's fast and hard and we pant like dogs.

I can feel you getting rougher, getting closer, and my fingers slip and drag down the wall, marking it, flakes of paint caking under my fingernails, as I feel myself go as well.

When we cum, I stain the wall. You hold me and rest your head against my back.

_*_

Then you wake up to find your pants and sheets need washing. 

Yours,

Arthur 

_**October 28**__**th**__**,  
From: Alfred Jones to Kirkland, A. **_

Fuck.

Arthur, I'll be at Heathrow 6.12pm, GMT.

I'm bringing a pirate costume,

Alfred. 

_**October 28th, London**_

Both men were walking rather stiffly when they stepped out of the taxi and eagerly strode down Arthur's front garden path. In the front hallway, Alfred began hastily fumbling with one of his suitcases.

"It's in-" he watched as Arthur disappeared into the living room, reappearing with a set of clothes on a hanger. They looked old yet well cared for by contrast to the garments Alfred had unearthed.

"I said I bought a pirate outfit."

"Oh I know," Arthur said, "and that one can be yours," the man donned his old tricorne and gave Alfred a thorough look up and down that took in every crease in his jeans and every inch of his flesh, "I rather fancy you as my cabin boy. Now – dress and up against the wall wi' ye."

**A/N**

  
**"Flying this way is easier" –**Jet lag is typically more pronounced when flying from west to east.  
**"Ja? Sweetheart?" – **A nod to my fic "Oktoberfest". Apparently a study found that 70% of German couples who participated had petnames for their partners, the majority of them quite corny.  
**Tricorne** – put simply, a "Jack Sparrow" hat.  
**CBGB's – **A now closed club in NYC that was infamous for hosting acts such as Blondie, the Ramones and the Germs. Particularly known for the punk artists that performed there.


	7. Chapter 7

**NB: **To anyone out there who may be wondering why some chapters seem not so much to end as to stop, you're absolutely right and quite on the ball. Basically there are 8 real chapters to this fic but I've split them because they're just obscenely big. I'll be going back and renumbering all the chapters accordingly once I've finished posting but for now I hope you can enjoy with this little error. Enjoy the next part and also, for anybody who's concerned – all my stories have happy endings. Promise.

*****

_**November 3**__**rd**__**,  
To Kirkland A. from Ludwig**_

Arthur,

I wish to keep you abreast of the developments in my relationship with Feliciano. Sadly, they are almost all negative.

As per your suggestion I "picked an argument" with the man, so as to be able to try and identify the reasons for his behaviour of late. The result of this was that he became hostile and defensive. The reasons he gave for his irritation were that I am too uptight and do not allow him to make his own decisions. However, at the risk of your mockery, I feel this is inaccurate. I am, in fact, quite readily influenced by Feliciano (at least in the majority of matters, with the natural exceptions of warfare and business). This leaves me to assume that there is a deeper issue of which the surface alone was scraped during this argument.

What prompted our argument, for your information, was Feliciano's having now gone so far as to strip out the furniture and the carpet from my bedroom. Naturally, whilst an extreme measure in his effort to make the house a little more his own, his labours appear only to have made him angrier and tenser. In my attempt to rile the man I set him the ultimatum of simply finishing the decorating projects he has already begun and not starting any other works. This demand seems to have deeply upset him.

What do I do now? Does this account of events enlighten you? I fear I am left even more puzzled as to what the problem between Feliciano and myself is and why it appears to be growing worse.

Ludwig

_**November 4**__**th**__**,  
To Ludwig, from Kirkland, A.**_

Ludwig,

I think you've been annexed. Has he planted a flag anywhere?

Why on earth is he doing this? I know I'm supposed to be giving you advice but frankly this is a bit of out of my league. Alfred's only tried to conquer me a couple of times (Cheeky git. It was mainly in the bedroom so I_ think_ it was in jest). Feliciano really sounds like he means business but as to what all this tension and antagonism means, I have no clue. My only suggestion comes in the form of an email attachment. Print that out: it's your plane ticket to mine. If you'll remember, my advice for getting over Feliciano's being embarrassing was to get pissed. Maybe the same approach will shed some light on this baffling twist in the tale as well. At the very least it'll take your mind off the problem for a while.

See you soon,

Arthur

_**November 6**__**th**__**, London**_

When the door of the unassuming Georgian terrace was pulled open Ludwig was met first by the sight of a proffered pint of beer, then Arthur himself. The man sadly shook his head at the German.

"You poor sod," Ludwig estimated from the glazed look in Arthur's eyes that he had helped himself to a couple of beers himself before his arrival, "What have you done to get yourself in this bind, eh?"

"Er, _danke_," Ludwig took the beer and gave it a tentative sip. Upon identifying it as one of his own, he drank in earnest. His glass was empty as they stepped into Arthur's living room.

"Make yourself at home," Arthur told him pleasantly, shoving what appeared to be wool and knitting needles into a carpet bag and throwing said bag behind his sofa to make space for Ludwig, "There's crisps, biscuits, bonfire toffee and what-have-you in the kitchen if you want anything like that," Arthur, the German noticed, drank almost as though his beer was about to be snatched away from him, taking large, greedy gulps. Smacking his lips together, the man continued, "I myself am more than happy sticking to booze with a side of booze."

Ludwig gave him a wry smile and held up his own glass, "Prost."

Arthur held up his now empty glass, the head sliding down its sides, "If you say so. _Prost_."

Their first few glasses were drained in silence, almost as though the men had both realised independently that any conversation prior to a few tongue-loosening drinks was liable to be polite, stilted and painful. By what Ludwig estimated was Arthur's fifth glass of the evening, the Englishman raised a hand and tapped a finger in the air as though remembering himself.

"Ah, just one thing," he said, firmly, "You have to promise me this, Ludwig: under no circumstances, not on any account can you let me-"

The German gave a lone nod, refilling his glass as he listened. To his relief he felt how his shoulders were relaxing, the tension leaving his body as though the new, lazy and drunken calm coming over him was water showering down upon his body.

"I used to drink with your bother, you know," Arthur said long enough later for the comment to draw an openly unimpressed, dubious expression from the German, "I did! He was a lot of fun back in the day-"

"You fooled around," Ludwig translated, letting Arthur read the disapproval on his face.

"Oh, we all did back then," the Englishman sighed fondly, "Me and Georgie the 4th – he was one of "yours" - lot of fun that bloke, but as a monarch he was about as much use as a chocolate fire guard."

Ludwig was all too aware of how drinking loosened his own tongue and his emotional restraint and as the evening turned into night he made no effort to stem any grievances he felt burgeoning in his mind. The mention of his brother provided him with considerable inspiration.

"My brother," he slopped his beer slightly as he attempted to get the glass off the sofa arm safely up to his mouth, "My brother is an idiot. He flirts with my boyfriend and," Ludwig did something which seemed to make Arthur, drunk and slumped over one sofa arm though he was, look surprised: the German laughed, "He says Feliciano likes him more than he likes me; but I..." Ludwig lifted up his arms and looked down at himself, "I look like _this_. You see, Arthur – are you listening?"

The Englishman propped himself up on the sofa arm by his chin, "Yes, 'course I'm listening to you, that's what friends are for."

"Ah," Ludwig caught the man's eye, "Then, you see, the reason is because I am _awesome_ and my brother doesn't realise that."

Arthur gave a snort, grabbing onto the sofa to keep from falling to the floor. The German scowled.

"I am! It is perfectly true! Feliciano tells me all the time. Don't you hear him screaming when we fuck over here?"

The Englishman shook his head, smirking, as he clambered to his feet and began to stride about the room. He picked up a few objects from his mantelpiece, including an old spyglass through which he gave Ludwig a squint, "No. You're a little kid anyway. You're not a _man_ like me. I really know how to please a man," he said, in a smooth if slurred tone, "Mate, if you're awesome, I'm off the bleeding chart altogether."

Ludwig gave a cough that sounded oddly like the world "football", which prompted Arthur to give a cough himself that resembled the words "WW1 and WW2". They snorted with laughter by way of a truce.

"Pass me that, would you?" Arthur said, pointing a wandering hand at something caught between the sofa cushions. Ludwig extracted the object and frowned.

"Didn't you say not to-?"

"Oh I was joking about that! It's fine. Pass it here; I want to have a bit of fun."

_**November 7**__**th**__**, London**_

The pair awoke next morning with a chorus of mumbles, groans, coughs and mutters.

After rolling off the sofa, Arthur cracked open his eyes, only to shut them tight once more when the overhead light proved too bright for his tender head.

"Christ. Remind me to stick to drinking lemonade from now on," he said hoarsely, dragging a hand down his face.

Ludwig, curled up as far as was possible in one arm chair, pushed up the brim of a too-small top hat and squinted out, queasily, from beneath it, "'kay."

"How are you feeling, young man?" Arthur asked, boosting himself up from the floor with a grunt of effort and moving to rummage in a drawer from which he unearthed some paracetamol, "Revitalised?"

"Not exactly," Ludwig paused before adding, "I should talk to Feliciano-"

Arthur gave a scowl and swallowed his tablets, "The idea was to take your mind _off_ him for a while."

"No. I need to," the other man insisted, "Even if I don't know what I've done wrong, I'd prefer to apologise and attempt and fix matters," Ludwig pulled his phone from his pocket.

The Englishman's head shot up at the sight of the mobile, an action which instantly made him wince and cradle his forehead; his expression, however, remained a disturbed, wide eyed one.

"Bollocks."

Ludwig paused in his efforts to navigate his phone, peering blearily at the screen, "What? Is something wrong?" The question, he realised, hardly needed posing, as Arthur was already at his side, eyes wild and expression mortified.

"I told you to do one thing last night," the man said, crouching down beside him on the floor and nearly over-balancing in the effort. He took the top hat from Ludwig's head and skimmed it blindly across the living room to thud against one wall, "What was it?"

The German returned his look in puzzlement. He gave the question some thought.

"You said that I should help myself to "crisps, biscuits, toffee and what-have-you"."

"No," Arthur shook his head, turning a little green in the face with the effort, "No you bloody Kraut, I told you specifically _not_ to let me do something."

With considerable effort, Ludwig searched his memories of the night before. His recollections were all considerably disjointed: there had been raucous singing until a thud on one wall had indicated they should shut up. Then, they had proceeded to one-up each other on the matter of cars, sports and boyfriends. Then, they had slumped on the sofa together, Ludwig almost wearing the smaller man like a waistcoat whilst the Englishman had taken to informing him of how much of a friend he considered Ludwig. That memory in particular seemed curious now, in the light of day, faced with an Arthur who was still turning different shades of flushed, enraged red and sickened yellowy green.

"We didn't do anything," Ludwig chose his words carefully, "regrettable. I can confirm that. With or to each other, I mean-"

Arthur seemed beyond noticing the effort to placate him, "I gave you one very simple instruction. Heavens above, I thought you _liked_ rules."

It took Ludwig glancing back down at his phone for the memory to come to him fully, like a video clip of someone else's life.

"Don't let you ring anybody," he repeated. Arthur nodded, desperately.

"I remember ringing someone," he was patting his own pockets down in search of his mobile; they were empty, "Check your bloody call log. Who did _you_ ring last night?"

Ludwig did so as Arthur started to scatter sofa cushions, frowning slightly at the overreaction of the man. One thing he did recall from the previous night was how Arthur had not bothered to explain _why_ he should be kept from ringing anyone. An unfamiliar number was at the top of the list of calls on his phone.

"There's a number here that I don't have in my phonebook-" was all it took for Arthur to stop opening the cupboards of a china cabinet and grab the Blackberry. The Englishman gave a groan and started a call. With polite interest, Ludwig watched Arthur's simpering yet sickened expression as he began to talk to whoever was on the other end of the line, their relatively loud voice also reaching Ludwig.

"Hello. Yes. Yes, I know I'm a little shit. Well – well actuall- I'm sure you want to do that to my face, quite understandable but– 2 o'clock in the morning, eh?" Arthur was pacing the room, randomly flicking rude gestures at the walls and pulling the occasional face as he went, "Look, can I just- yes but I am trying to say- just give me a chance – yes, I'm sorry. I was with Ludwig, you see. Huh-why the laughing exactly? Hey, I have friends! I damn well _do_ have friends you tartan clad twat! Ja- _James_, if you'd let me finish. Yes, he doesn't know the phone rule, or at least I told him and he can't hold his drink so he didn't remember-what do you mean pot and bloody kettle? I _can_ hold my pissing drink! I _wanted_ to wander down the road naked last Christmas, it was _invigorating_-"

Ludwig tuned out the conversation at length, straightening his clothes and hunting down his mysteriously absent socks instead, hearing idly how the volume of Arthur's voice rose and fell like the crashing of waves on a shore. The German helped himself to a couple of paracetamol whilst the man's back was turned. The carriage clock on the mantlepiece ticked down another couple of minutes and Arthur ended the call, half grimacing, half smiling.

"Oh yes - that's most definitely my scrotum on a silver platter," he handed Ludwig the phone back, dismissing the man's awkward mumbled apology, "Could have been worse," the Englishman was frowning however as he spoke the words, "Are you sure there aren't any other calls on there? I feel like I had another good rant."

Ludwig scrolled through the history on his phone, "No, that's the last one."

"Give my phone a ring, would you?" Arthur gestured to the rather worse-for-wear living room, sofa cushions still heaped on the floor, "I'm stumped as to where I've put it."

Eventually, the phone was discovered by Ludwig, chiming away inside an old coal scuttle. Again, he accessed the call log, wiping some coal dust from the screen to make out the names of the last few call recipients. One name, the top of the list, sparked a few more memories of the night before.

"It was Alfred."

Arthur's expression too suggested he had begun to recall the previous night's activities, although the rather haunted quality the expression possessed also gave the impression that he did not remember as fully as he wished.

"Do you remember what I was going on about?"

The German frowned in thought, causing his head to pulsate harder. Still, words and snatches of memory returned.

"You were teasing him," he noted, "You were talking about what you would like to do to him and then-"

Arthur was already dialling Alfred's number on the Blackberry as Ludwig spoke, muttering a chorus of "Shit shit shit" as he waited for the man to pick up.

The American did so with an angry, sleepy growl.

"Ludwig, what the fuck? It's the middle of the goddamn night."

"Alfred-"

Ludwig watched how Arthur took on a quality he had never seen before: he looked every bit of his age now, his frown tired and lonely. The way he held the phone looked almost as though he were attempting to placate the object itself.

"...You're a shit," the American said, coolly. Arthur's eyes closed in a wince at how the words were soft yet still capable of cutting through his delicate, hangover wrecked head, "You're a fucking shit, you know that?"

"I am so sorry. I remember what I said and I know it sounds bad but I need to explai-"

Ludwig made out the sound of the American's bitter laughter even from his distance, "Explain? There's no need to explain, Arthur. I heard what you said, loud and clear. It was easy enough to understand, even for a slow, stupid little kid like me-"

"Alfred, I don't think of you as a kid. And you're not stupid, I was just a bit drunk and what I meant was-"

"Shut up. I don't want to hear anymore of your shit," the American gave a sigh, "It was stupid, telling you not to pull away from me and give this relationship a chance. Chris'sake, you still think this is the 18th century, don't you? It's just like then, with the taxes. You're still the same megalomaniac bastard."

"Alfred," each time the Englishman said the name, it was quieter and a little more desperate. Ludwig scarcely knew where to look or what to do with himself. Eventually, he settled for staring hard at the carpet before Arthur's stock still form.

"Say what you said last night. I wanna hear it again."

"You don't underst-"

Ludwig heard the words that followed clearly, "I KNOW WHAT YOU MEANT. It was very, very clear to me what you meant, you limey bastard. So say the words again, and then I'm going to sleep. I've had enough of your shit for a lifetime."

"I said..." Arthur swallowed around a lump in his throat, "I said that you belonged to me." In spite of himself, Ludwig's head darted upward as he stared in ill-concealed horror at Arthur.

The American's words were just as quiet as Arthur's.

"Yeah, you did," the man said wearily, "Keep the fuck away from me, okay?"

_**November 8**__**th**__**, Berlin**_

"I made you a really light breakfast," Feliciano said, holding out a basket of pastries to his lover across the table, "I thought that maybe your stomach would still be a little delicate after all the beer and Arthur's cooking."

"Thanks," Ludwig took a few and placed them on his plate. A paler hand materialised by the side of his head and grabbed a couple more. He shot a look at his brother.

"Morning," Gilbert said, adding as an afterthought, "I let myself in. I could smell the gorgeous cooking from outside."

In what appeared to be a pre-emptive effort to stop the brothers from fighting, Feliciano switched subject.

"Ludwig was out drinking with Arthur in London yesterday. Arthur invited him over."

The East German looked at his brother as though checking whether the comment was an incomprehensible joke, "Huh. I've done him."

The couple's responses were near instantaneous: Feliciano leant forward a little, grinning almost mischievously as he asked "Really? When? Was it good?", whilst Ludwig coughed as he swallowed his coffee with a mutter of "Gilbert, nein."

Gilbert gave Feliciano a wink, "Another time, maybe? My little bro can't handle his beer normally, so hearing about how I epically stormed Arthur's... well, the beer would be coming back to say "hallo". Another time, when we aren't eating," he nodded, finishing a pastry.

"The night wasn't very good," Ludwig cut across, spreading some chocolate spread onto his pastry, "Or at least, the next morning wasn't."

"Because of the hangover?" Gilbert queried.

"No. Arthur and Alfred; well, they broke up over the phone whilst I was there."

Feliciano's eyes widened, making him look childlike one moment, then suddenly older and saddened the next, "Really? Why? They're good together."

"It seemed complicated. Alfred was very angry though," Ludwig said with a grimace, "It's probably better that you know, Feliciano. I know you talk to him sometimes."

Curiously, his lover's expression seemed to turn inexplicably pensive for a moment before he gave a nod, wiping a little butter from the corner of his mouth and licking it from his thumb, gaining himself a leer from Gilbert.

After a time, the doorbell rang. To both Germans' confusion, Feliciano jumped up and walked to the front door without any hesitation.

"Who is it?" Gilbert said, attempting to lean back enough to peer down the corridor.

"It is _moi_," the visitor announced for himself. Francis appeared in the kitchen to a massive grin from the East German, giving Gilbert a wink in return which Ludwig always felt had the feel of a secret-pact to it, "How are you all?"

"I invited big brother," Feliciano explained, a little late. The man was already sliding into the seat beside Feliciano and was, if the movement Ludwig could sense under the table was anything to go by, was already playing footsie with his brother.

"Mm," Francis agreed, pouring himself coffee and drinking some with an approving, slow sip as though the drink were a fine vintage, "And I am very touched by the offer. My little brother is such a kind boy, isn't he Ludwig?"

Ludwig finished his pastry in silence, feeling how his shoulders and body were returning quicker than he'd expected to their usual, tensed state.

"Why is he so quiet this morning?" Francis said, leaning in toward Feliciano so much that their shoulders almost brushed together and gesturing to Ludwig, "Ah, is the answer to rude for the breakfast table?"

"We were just talking about how I used to screw Arthur," Gilbert noted, through a mouthful of banana, "But that's not the problem. He's quiet because he was drinking at Arthur's a day ago."

Francis' eyes lit up with evident curiosity, "_At Arthur's?_ Ludwig, that is a historical, monumental occasion. Did he make you wear carpet slippers and use coasters?"

"No," the Italian held onto Francis' arm for a moment as though to adequately impress upon him the import of his words, "Arthur and Alfred split up! It's horrible, isn't it?"

"No," the German's tone had turned thoughtful as an idea came to him, "We just drank, Francis. I wonder though: might I ask a favour of you? It's to do with Arthur and Alfred."

The Frenchman raised an eyebrow roguishly, "That sounds like a very enjoyable favour to perform. Tell me all the details."

**A/N**

"**James" –** My name for Arthur's brother, Scotland. His other brothers are Dylan (Wales) and Liam (Northern Ireland).

"**Football" –** Arthur is likely to be a bit of a football fan and as a result he is liable to cry if he thinks about how often Germany have beaten the English team.

"**George 4****th****" –** One of the "Hanover" monarchs, thus why Arthur classes George loosely as "one of Ludwig's". He had a reputation for drinking, gambling and eating excessively.

"**Bonfire toffee" – **"Bonfire Night" (a celebration of the defeat of the Gunpowder Treason plot to blow up Parliament during the reign of James 1st) is on November 5th. Celebrations comprise of bonfires, fireworks, toffee apples and bonfire toffee.


	8. Chapter 8

_**November 9**__**th**__**, London**_

It was mid-evening when Arthur worked up the courage to ring Alfred's number again. He was amazed to hear the call actually ring through as opposed to simply go to voicemail. In spite of his temptation to end the call he held on long enough to hear a dubious voice greet him.

"Hello Arthur."

"Alfred, I am so sorry. Don't hang up."

"Arthur," the voice sighed, "It's not Alfred. It's me, Matthew."

The Englishman couldn't help but feel stupid for imagining that the American would be the one to answer. Still, he said feebly, "Oh. I definitely rang Alfred's number."

"Yeah, you did," Matthew agreed, "Your calls are set to go through to me instead."

"So he told you what happened?"

"Yes," Matthew's disapproval was evident from his tone, "I was wondering though, Arthur: do I still "belong" to you as well?"

"No," Arthur winced, "I didn't mean it, not like that. I'm sorry. Really," he took a deep breath and went on, firmly, "Even so, I _need_ you to put me through to Alfred."

"You know I can't, I promised. You wouldn't even want to talk to him right now. He needs time to cool down. He's in the middle of a slasher movie marathon; that's not good news."

"Then what do I do? Wait for him to call? That's never going to happen. Matt, he called me a "limey bastard"," the words made Arthur's stomach churn as he repeated them, "He's not called me that since then, since the war."

Matthew's sigh sounded somewhat sympathetic, Arthur was relieved to hear, "I can't force him to talk to you. The way I see it, you only have one option."

"And what's that?"

"The World Conference. He has to show, eh?" the other man said, "And the theme is "Diplomacy and Developing Relationships", isn't it? Maybe if you've planned well enough you'll be about to use those diplomatic activities to salvage what you two have together."

"Thanks Matt. Sorry to waste your time."

"You didn't waste my time," the man said, "I'll see you at the Conference."

"Yeah, see you then."

"Oh, and Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"Good luck."

_**November 10**__**th**__**, London**_

Shopping bags in hand, Arthur instinctively sensed something was different inside his house as he let himself in. A slight alteration in the atmosphere registered in a deep recess of his mind. Illogically, his heart gave a small leap in the hope that perhaps Alfred had let himself in but the lack of sneakers on the hall rug, the lack of grooves in the carpet from suitcase wheels and the total absence of empty coffee cups in the kitchen all told him that that was impossible.

Arthur hung up his coat with a frown, eyes still darting about the small interior, attempting to settle his on-edge mind. The efforts failed, and at length Arthur headed up the stairs to his bedroom in order to appease his nerves. Slowly, he opened the door to the room.

"Salut," said a tall, long haired man, stretched out on the bed as though he owned it, an arm tucked under his head.

"Piss off."

Francis sat up against the headboard and patted the space beside him with a slow, spreading sort of smile. "My most dear enemy," he said, "Let's be civil, non?"

"I forgot you still have a bloody key. As if the Channel Tunnel wasn't invasive enough," Arthur sighed, joining him on the bed. The old endearment of "dear enemy" which in other circumstances was liable to cause him to smile made Arthur suspicious of the man's purpose, "So what the hell are you doing here? I assume it must be a visit for the cuisine, oui?"

"But of course," the look the Frenchman shot him made him uncomfortable; it was the same disapproving expression the man had worn near constantly during their childhood, such as on the occasions when Arthur had chased the Frenchman's pets, threatening to curse them.

"What?"

"So it is you and Alfred."

"Was," Arthur corrected, "And will be again, if I can help it, yes. You're behind the times if you only just found about us two, you know."

Francis pulled another disapproving face, "Arthur, we do not need to argue."

"Don't we?" Arthur said with mock sadness "I really enjoy it when we fight like cats and dogs."

Looking suitably incorrigible, Francis muttered, "I always preferred it when we acted like two dogs," his previous disapproval soon returned, however, "It was not a good idea, and it wouldn't be a good idea to pursue it again."

"What?" Arthur gestured between the two of them, "You mean this? Of course not; it'd be a bloody awful idea. Not in a million years."

"Non. You and Alfred," the Englishman's customary smirk slipped at the unexpectedly forthright opinion, "You see, it is that with you and he," Francis appeared to ignore Arthur's frown at his intentionally poor English, "You have too much of an history for you to be happy together in that way. Even if you had not gotten drunk –"

"How the hell do you know about that?"

Francis held a finger to his lips and shrugged sweetly, "As I say: even if you had not gotten drunk, this problem would have appeared by some means. Do you not remember when we were young, and when I would defeat you sometimes-"

"Sometimes? Try bloody never."

"You would always look at me with such hatred," Arthur's expression grew more openly despondent at that, "I wonder if either of you are distant enough from those issues to be together."

It took Arthur some time to respond, but when the man did his voice was firm, "I'm not explaining what happened to you, or what I really meant - that's for Alfred's ears only, but believe me, I'm nothing at all like I was back then. And neither is he. God knows, he has all the power now. He can take care of himself, and I'm glad of that. This relationship is nothing like it was back then; history is not going to repeat itself this time."

"Ah," Francis held up a hand and leant over the side of the bed to pick up a large cardboard box, "I am forgetting. A parcel arrived _pour toi_. From America."

Arthur winced as he ripped the tape with a letter opener. He nodded acceptingly as he inspected the contents of the box. Primarily, they were a collection of books and DVDs he had either given to or lent Alfred, but, as he pulled more and more of the contents out he found that, tucked in between the layers, were postcards of various English holiday resorts and photographs of either himself, Alfred or them both grinning, waving or pulling faces in a variety of different locations and weather conditions, from blazing hot America summers to muggy and cold British winters.

His worst discovery, however, and the one that made his chest tighten momentarily, was what he found at the very bottom of the box. Digging deep, he extricated the small, green eyed, bushy-browed toy soldier only to drop the toy back into the box with a sigh. He replaced the parcel on the floor and leant back against the headboard.

"I've cocked up."

"Oui."

"But it's not over," Arthur said, looking straight into Francis' eyes as he spoke, "I have the World Conference, Matthew said as much. I can make amends then. We'll see. It's not over until the last bloody whistle."

Francis put his arm about the man after some huffing and wriggling from Arthur and gave a silent smile.

"What are you so blumming smug about?"

"Not smug, _Goddam._ I wonder," Francis said in a tone that suggested real consideration, "You seem so determined to love him, perhaps it will work."

"It will," Arthur agreed, "It has to."

The friendly arm slipped a little, the hand drifting to cup and pinch Arthur's buttock, "And if it does not, well, I am only a tunnel away."

Arthur swallowed a little bile that rose in his throat and turned to give the man a kiss on either cheek in the awkward manner of one totally unused to such customs, "Thanks. I believe you've given me even more motivation to make it work with Mr Awesome."

"Then I have fulfilled my purpose."

The Englishman looked suitable perplexed and suspicious at the words, "What's that supposed to mean, exactly? Fulfilled what purpose?"

Francis let his hand drift to Arthur's other buttock and gave that one an equally fond pinch, causing the other man to give a restrained sort of yelp, "Never you mind, eyebrows."

_**November 17**__**th**__**, Berlin**_

It was hardly surprising, Feliciano felt, that he was bad in matters of conflict and war when a simple argument or personal conflict made him feel so out of sorts. Ludwig's continuing calm and insistent secrecy regarding the identity of his "correspondent" was enough to leave Feliciano feeling unsettled and uncomfortable in his own skin for days on end.

That day, he found himself making the decision to visit the town by himself only to wind up wandering the same shopping streets over and again aimlessly. Back at the house, he managed little more than to prepare himself a simple, plain lunch and to hastily sketch a possible lay out for his and Ludwig's bedroom.

Indeed, it was almost the case that Feliciano rang the logistics company that evening in order to occupy himself and force himself into a substantial task of some kind. As he spoke to the operator, he twirled and trapped his fingers in the phone cord.

"Okay then sir," the voice on the other end of the line said, "The latest possible date for delivery is the 21st of December. Will that not be inconvenient? Would you not prefer the bed frame delivering sooner? It would be possible to have the furniture transported to your Berlin address within a matter of days."

"No. I really want it as late as possible, thank you."

"Very well, sir. The details for the delivery will be posted to you shortly. Can I help you with anything else?"

"No, thank you for your time."

"Good bye sir."

After some misfires, Feliciano managed to "touch" the end call "button" firmly enough to hang up. He sat on the edge of the army cot and waggled his feet with nervous energy. What he had just done wasn't quite lying, he knew, but he couldn't help but feel bad for his actions regardless. Worse he knew would be when Ludwig offered to ring up the logistics company to move forward the date of the delivery. It was a matter he would have to deal with in time.

He jumped a little as he felt his phone begin to vibrate, moments later, in his hand. Feliciano gave a smile at how the phone played one of his favourite songs, thanks to Ludwig's efforts as opposed to his own. He all but hit the phone in order to accept the call.

"Alfred?"

"Hey," the syllable alone was enough for Feliciano to hear how the man was on edge, "Hey, how are you?"

"Fine," Feliciano said in a tone that failed to convince even himself; his eyes slid over the overly large, stripped-bare bedroom he was sat in, "You sound... Well, how are things?" he asked, bracing himself to hear the news he had already gathered from Ludwig.

"Me and Arthur are over," Feliciano shivered at how calm yet enraged Alfred's words were, "So, whatever. I'm not ringing about that though-"

"I'm sorry."

"Huh?" The American said, a little quieter, "Sorry about what?"

"That things didn't work out."

The man seemed to hesitate momentarily before continuing, "Oh. Yeah; it's fine. Do you want to go camping?"

The Italian stared blankly at the space along the opposite wall where he could imagine placing a desk for Ludwig's late night work fix when the decorating was finished, just close enough so that he would be able to watch the man from their bed.

"Camping?"

"Yeah," Alfred's effort to be cheery and enthusiastic came across as somewhat domineering and brittle, Feliciano felt, "The forests here look great in the fall. So, do you wanna?"

"...Would you like to?"

"That's why I'm ringing," the man laughed, "Like you said, we don't ever get to see each other, right? And the World Conference will just be business. I can get a flight sorted out for you and everything if you want to."

"That's really kind of you-"

"But you don't want to?"

"No! No, I do-"

"So it's Ludwig then? He doesn't want you to-?"

Feliciano squirmed with even more discomfort, "No. I want to. We should – when were you thinking?"

"Um, maybe the day after tomorrow?"

"Oh," Feliciano recalled a conversation he had had with Francis on one of their recent outings in Paris. The man had been talking about jealousy, though Feliciano had not known why exactly, and how the emotion was capable of making good people do ugly things. He found himself glad that the mirror he wanted to hang in the bedroom was still back in Venice. The Italian had a feeling that, should he have glanced into it at that moment, he would have been disgusted with the consideration and deliberation that passed across his expression, all influenced by that one thought of retribution for Ludwig's own secrecy.

"I'd love to."

_**November 19**__**th**__**, A lonely forest camp, somewhere in the USA **_

To the Italian's surprise, Alfred was able to keep his promise and within the matter of a day he was laid on his back beside a crackling fire, staring up at the blanket of clear and crisp white stars speckling the inky sky above the pair.

"It's really beautiful," he said, softly, "I wish I'd brought my paints with me."

"Oh, yeah," Alfred finished eating a toasted marshmallow and rolled onto his side to look at Feliciano, "How's all that DIY going?"

The Italian's gentle feeling of good-humour waned a little at the question, "Fine. Um," reluctantly, he went on, "To be honest, it's been a bit of an issue between me and Ludwig. But nevermind; it doesn't matter."

"Okay," the American was silent for a time, "Wanna tell ghost stories?"

Feliciano gave a shiver, "Not really. That kind of thing scares me. I like being outside, in nature and talking like we are now but if I think about it too hard the darkness and the being out by myself really scare me."

"Ha, don't worry," Alfred puffed up his chest, "You forget: you've got a hero with you. I guess it is kind of late, though. If we want to pick out a new place to set up camp tomorrow we should hit the hay nice and early, yeah?"

"Sure," As they got to their feet, Feliciano gave the man a little kiss on the cheek, "Thanks again for inviting me."

The American looked almost as though he instinctively wanted to wipe his cheek but keep himself from doing so, blushing instead, "Whatever; it's fine. Don't mention it." The pair picked up their sleeping bags and headed into the moderately sized tent Alfred had brought with him.

With a few final shared smiles and "good nights" Alfred and Feliciano fell to sleep with ease. Several hours later, the pair was just as easily awoken by a curious, crunching sound of twigs and undergrowth outside.

"Feliciano?" the American called out, hoarsely.

"Yeah?"

"Oh, so it's not you outside?"

"No," Alfred almost felt how the other man shivered, "No... So who _is_ it?"

Carefully, Alfred turned on a torch, holding it in such as way so as to cup the beam, shedding only a small circle of light upon himself and Feliciano, "But you hear it? It's not just my imagination?"

In the feeble light from the torch, Feliciano looked petrified, clutching at his sleeping bag as though it were armour, "No. No I hear-!"

Alfred nearly dropped the torch as the sound returned, louder and closer than before, "Shit! That was closer! Oh shit shit shit, it's gonna be a farmer who'll chop our spines into tiny pieces."

"What?" Feliciano squeaked with as much terror as he could muster whilst still only whispering. He scooted silently to Alfred's side, practically cowering by the man's side, "You really think so?"

"Hell, I've seen the movies," Alfred whispered, darting glances about. The sounds rang out again and both men jumped a little, "It never ends well," he said, regretfully, "Damn. Or maybe there's some kind of serial killer on the loose. Ring Ludwig."

"What?" Feliciano managed to stop looking fearful long enough to look perplexed.

"He'll know all about that. You're always saying that he's clever. He'll know about serial killers and farmers and-" Alfred stopped his babbling to add, with finality, "He can Google for us."

"No."

"What? You want to die, in the middle of nowhere, in a tent?"

"No, of course not!" Feliciano whimpered, "But... Well, me and Ludwig are kind of having problems."

Alfred forced the Italian to squint and shield his face as he let the torch slip accidentally, pointing directly at Feliciano.

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah," Feliciano said, crouching and curling up further against the American, "The decorating... he told me to just finish what I'm doing and stop. And he's keeping things from me," he rubbed at his face roughly, to the American's distress, clearly to stop himself from crying, "I don't know what's going on anymore-oh God, oh God they're right outside!"

"Shit!"

The "door" of the tent was wrenched open to the sound of both men screaming, clinging to each other all the while. Matthew peered inside, eyebrows lost somewhere in his bangs in his surprise.

"Evening, eh?"

Alfred carried on staring for a moment, mouth agape, before his brain registered what was going on.

"What the _fuck_?" he hissed as he fell back, still hugging a shaking Feliciano to himself, "We nearly died from heart attacks!"

"You've been in my place for the last two days; I think you took a wrong turn," Matthew climbed inside the tent at an insistent gesture from Alfred, who hastily closed the zip again as though the men were still at risk of attack from serial killers.

"Hey," Matthew smiled pleasantly at Feliciano, "Are you over here on vacation then?"

The Italian nodded, "Yes. Alfred invited me."

"Just you? Isn't Ludwig here?"

At that, Feliciano shot Alfred a look, the man currently resettling himself on crossed legs beside his brother on the other side of the tent, "No. Actually, the thing is- well, Ludwig doesn't know I'm here."

The widening of Alfred's eyes said that the man, unlike his brother, gathered the full import of Feliciano's words, "You mean you didn't tell him? Where does he think you are, exactly?"

"I told him I was visiting my brother. He's rung Lovino and he and Lovino have both tried to ring my phone since then, so I know he knows I've been... lying to him," Feliciano said, playing with the zip on his sleeping bag.

"Why though? Feliciano, he's probably really worried," Alfred said in disconcertion, "Why would you lie about something like that?"

After sending a look at the close, almost stifling ceiling of their tent, Feliciano answered.

"Ludwig's keeping things from me, so I thought why not do the same to him?"

"What kind of thing has he been keeping from you?" Matthew asked this time, the wince on his face suggesting he had already formed his own conclusions.

"I don't know," Feliciano smiled sadly, "But I have my ideas. I wish I hadn't lied but I guess all my anger got the better of me," he looked out at Alfred reticently and added without humour, "I feel bad for you, though."

The American frowned, "Why?"

"Because I was giving you advice about relationships," Feliciano gave a weak laugh, "And look what's happening to my own. I'm really sorry about it."

Alfred gave a shuffle as though uncertain whether to stay put or to hug the other man. He eventually resettled himself and shrugged, "Don't be."

"You know," Matthew spoke up, delicately, "I still don't know exactly what happened with you and Arthur, you know."

Alfred's expression changed instantly from distance and thoughtful to tense and defensive.

"It doesn't matter. It's just over, that's all."

"But what did he do?" Feliciano said, with quiet curiosity, "Ludwig told me he got drunk, but I don't know what he said to you."

The American leant his weight back upon his hands and gave a thoughtful scowl, "It really doesn't matter, but I'll tell, if you really want to know. He rang up and I could tell he was seriously drunk. I was just humouring him at first, finding it kind of funny actually because he was talking about sex and stuff that he wouldn't usually dare talk about sober," the man's hands gave the covers of his sleeping bag a sudden, wrenching twist, "But then his tone turned really bitter. It was just like a switch had flipped, and he started telling me that what I was doing "wasn't on, it wasn't on". I ask him what the hell he meant, but he was too far gone, he just kept saying it and then, finally, he said _it_."

"Said what?" Feliciano asked.

" "You belong to me"," Alfred spat the words out, "He said that really quietly. It struck me more because he said it like that, instead of shouting it. And after that, that's all he would say. He mumbled some other stuff that I could hardly make out but everything was followed by those words, that I belonged to him," he sighed, tiredly, "I hung up after a while."

After some deliberation, Matthew spoke.

"Arthur rang your number. He said he wanted to apologise."

"It's too late," Alfred said simply, "He didn't have to be that guy in the first place. He should have just kept his mouth shut. Hell, if he had, I still would have thought he'd changed."

Feliciano's words caused both Americans to study him, silently.

"I hope everything works out," he murmured, "I don't mean work out perfectly. I just... I don't think this is how things are supposed to be. I hope everyone sees that. I hope things change."

"Yeah," Alfred said without conviction, "I guess. That'd be good."

At length Matthew struggled to his knees, and, to a yell of protest from his brother, unzipped the tent.

"There's a motel a couple of miles from here," he explained, climbing out and crouching down to look back at the two other men expectantly, "It's gonna get really cold tonight and I think maybe some late night TV and food that didn't come out of cans wouldn't be a bad idea. My treat."

Alfred and Feliciano shared a look.

"Let's get the hell out of here," said the American.


	9. Chapter 9

_**November 24**__**th**__**, Berlin**_

Feliciano dreaded disembarking, naturally, the plane landed at the expected time and he was left with no other option but to face the reality of the situation in which he found himself. He tried to steel himself for his reunion with Ludwig by taking his time getting his suitcase off the carousel, waiting until most of his flight had gone through to the arrivals hall before walking through himself.

He walked up to Ludwig's side in silence, a silence the other man seemed desperate to break but kept instead out of what appeared to be a sense of decorum. Once the pair was sat in Ludwig's car and Feliciano had closed the passenger door, the German caught his eye and spoke, in a wavering tone.

"Why lie to me?"

The Italian ran a hand up and down under his seat belt and gave a little shrug, feeling how small his own shoulders felt in the large leather bucket seat of Ludwig's sports car.

"There had to be a reason for it," The German sounded more hopeful than assured, however.

"I thought you would tell me not to go; it was really short notice."

Ludwig's brows knitted yet further together, "There was no guarantee I would say no – and why would that matter? It would not be my decision to make. I only want to see you safe, and you lied to me. No one knew where you were, Feliciano."

Feliciano let the belt snap back into place a final time, "I'm sorry," he whispered.

The German looked unconvinced and unsatisfied with the words as he put the car into gear and pulled out the parking space. Feliciano sat as though frozen, unable to bring himself to turn on the radio to break the silence, but unable either to force any words or pleasantries from his mouth.

The drive, as a result, seemed to take considerably longer than it ought to and Feliciano felt as though his already jet-lagged body was even stiffer as he stepped from the car and walked inside Ludwig's house, Ludwig following him with his suitcase. Feliciano heard but did not turn to watch as the man took the case upstairs. He was stood, instead, looking tiredly into the refrigerator for juice, the little light inside the machine making his tired eyes water, when the German spoke.

"I don't understand Feliciano. I'm sorry."

The Italian pressed the ball of one hand hard against his eyes to keep himself from crying before closed the door of the refrigerator and turned to Ludwig. Wearily, he walked up to his lover and placed his arms over the man's shoulders, screwing up his face as he pressed it against Ludwig's chest to keep himself quiet. Ludwig's arms, his brain told him, felt the same as ever, firm and warm, like a finality and a guarantee and yet the touch did not seem the same as usual, not quite so immediate or as comforting as it ought to. He clung a little harder to the man to make up for the change in the sensation.

"Feliciano."

"You and Arthur," he said, when he could be sure his voice would not waver too noticeably, "You were just drinking."

The words had not been phrased as a question, rather, instead, a command, but Ludwig still nodded, a hand straying to stroke Feliciano's hair.

"Of course."

"I missed you, you know. On my vacation."

He felt Ludwig plant a kiss on the top of his head.

"And I you. You need to catch up on your sleep."

"Don't go and do any more work tonight," Feliciano said, pulling back from the man's grasp but taking one of his hands in his own instead, "Come to bed, now."

In spite of his baffled frown, Ludwig gave a simple nod.

"If that's what you want from me."

_**November 26**__**th**__**, Berlin**_

The next day, Feliciano squinted about the empty bedroom and pulled himself up in the bed, trying his best to guess the time from the intensity of the sunlight that was coming through the still-drawn curtains. Ludwig had clearly already gone to work, he realised, and had probably left him a note saying as much in the kitchen. He gave a frown at how he still felt tired, both mentally and physically, in spite of having slept straight through the night. Aimlessly, he shuffled over onto Ludwig's side of the bed and let his eyes close lazily for a moment before forcing himself out of the bed and onto his feet.

Passing by the clothing rail he extracted one of Ludwig's suit jackets and pulled it on, his hands disappearing somewhere inside the sleeves and brushing against the silky lining within. He sidled into the study and sat down to one of Ludwig's laptops, wearing a wandering, weary expression on his face which he saw reflected, ghost-like, back to him in the darkened screen.

A touch of his finger tip against the touch pad and the computer came to life, showing a German news website that Feliciano was able to understand in snatches and phrases – "arts", "weather", "the economy". He considered the other open programmes along the bottom of the screen and, after some deliberation, clicked on "email".

The inbox was empty, but down the side of the screen, he noticed, were countless folders, all labelled. Again, a few words in the list were familiar to the man: "work", "finances", "travel". His own name too was in the list, something which caused the Italian to give a little wry smile. He ran the cursor over a few of the folders, clicked and was given the same dialogue box for each. The words were incomprehensible to him, but he identified it as some sort of password protection. A minute of perusal told him that all the folders were similarly protected.

Feliciano scooted the desk chair back a little but, out of a strange curiosity or impulse, opted to click on the "check email" button. That much the software allowed him to do. Even in German, Feliciano identified the majority of the new emails as spam, whilst another appeared to be from Gilbert and a final message was from Arthur.

Feliciano considered this momentarily before clicking on the email, hand outstretched before him, materialising from under the over-long suit sleeve as though this somehow excused and distanced himself from his own actions.

The email opened and he studied it curiously.

"_Ludwig - Here's that idea I was on about for you to try:"_ it began abruptly. By the time Feliciano had finished reading the text that followed, one of his hands that had previously been resting on the top of the laptop had begun gripping the machine so hard that it shook against the desktop.

_**November 26**__**th**__**, Berlin and November 27**__**th**__**, Venice**_

Ludwig had almost missed the Post-It stuck to the front door, but, holding the door in his hand, he had moved back enough to glance at it and read the short message written on it:

"_Because you prefer to know where I am: I'm in Venice. Bye. F."_

He closed the door and locked himself out, reading the message again with his eyes narrowed. The second time through, the message was still readily understandable and yet seemed to hold a deeper meaning that made him reach for his car keys and climb back into his car.

Once booked onto and sat on the first flight from Munich, he closed his eyes and attempted to sleep, the curtain by his seat pulled down against the pitch black sky. Still, Ludwig found his eyes opening over and again as he repeated his lover's note in his mind. He looked about the interior of the plane with heavy eyes, jealously studying the faces of other passengers, lost in sleep and dreams.

The man let himself be carried in the wave of other travellers out into the airport where he passed straight through the arrivals hall, having brought no luggage bar his briefcase. He climbed into the first available taxi he found and told the driver Feliciano's address in passable Italian that still earned him a frown, tainted as it was by his accent. He tipped the man when they arrived.

Upon checking his watch, he found the time to be just gone three o'clock in the morning. Without deliberation, he made his way along the canal to Feliciano's door rather than book into a hotel, and, after a moment's thought, the German knocked firmly on the wood.

The speed with which a reply came made him wonder if the man had been awake and waiting for him.

"Fuck off, you macho fuckin' bastard!"

He almost dropped his briefcase at the words. He attempted to step back as far as he could in order to crane his neck and look into the man's bedroom window, facing out on to the canal.

"Feliciano?"

"Why the hell did you come here? Go back home! You're not wanted here, potato freak!"

Ludwig squinted in the hazy gloom that was not unlike a poorly tuned black and white television display. He could make out a figure stood in the unlit window, clinging to the sill as though prepared to either clamber out to get to him or else to pull the frame from its moorings.

"Scheiss!" Ludwig had no conception of uttering the word before it was echoing and bouncing off the narrow confines of the Venetian street, closely followed by the crash of a touch-screen phone, which shattered on the ground at his side.

"Go home, bastard!"

"Lovino?" Hands raised to protect his head, he squinted harder up at the open bedroom window, "Your curl's on the wrong side."

"I'm not fuckin' Lovino, you macho idiot! Go home before I rearrange you goddamn face, you lying asshole!"

Ludwig came to a halt, gawping at Feliciano who he saw, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, was bright red in the face. The German's standing still earned him a fistful of underwear to the head.

"What's wrong? What did I do?"

Worryingly, Feliciano disappeared from view. Heavy footfalls rang out, and, a moment later, the Italian appeared outside, dressed only in a pair of red briefs with a handful of papers clutched so hard in his fist that the man's fingers had stabbed through the middle of the sheets. The sheets were wafted a few scant centimetres from Ludwig's face.

"This," Feliciano pulled them away before Ludwig could bring any of the words into focus and, riffling through the pages, the Italian began to read in a loud, sardonic tone.

" "I feel your cock rub up against my thigh. "Take me," I say, "God, just take me, I've been waiting all day for this"," he shuffled the pages again, hands visibly shaking from rage, "Can you guess my favourite line?"

"Feliciano. I've never heard-"

"I said can you guess my favourite line?" the Italian hissed.

"No."

" "Yours, Arthur"," he studied Ludwig's blushing face contemptuously, "Want to explain?"

"I," Ludwig gave Feliciano a pleading, pathetic glance, "I can't. But it's not what y-"

"You need to go, before I goddamn _make_ you go," Feliciano told him, shaking the pages at him once again.

"We should talk."

"Yeah, maybe. But not now. Now, all I will do is punch you in the face and spit on you," Feliciano snarled, "So you better go."

"I thought," Ludwig said feebly, all of his questions and resolve washed away by the man's fury, "I thought you said you forgave me. You know, at Valentine's."

"I forgive you leaving me alone for a millennium. That doesn't clear you to go fucking "taking" Arthur Kirkland on top of a conference table! GO. NOW!"

At any other time, Ludwig realised, he would have found himself amazed that Feliciano, usually so mild, was capable of talking or indeed shouting in such a cutting, dangerous tone.

He found himself unable to do anything but heed the command and so Ludwig went, moving as though on castors. After he had put a few streets between himself and Feliciano, he came to a halt and, once he had stopped trembling enough to type, Ludwig send Arthur a text message asking him how he preferred to die.

_**November 26**__**th**__**, NYC**_

"Can't you just pick a station?"

Alfred looked across at his brother but his finger continued to jab endlessly at the remote control, sending the huge television screen from images of the Macy's parade to countless football games to _The Wizard of Oz _and reruns of old shows.

"Does it matter?"

"I'm getting a little motion sickness, that's all."

"Suck it up Matt," Alfred huffed, and proceeded to flick even faster so that, to Matt's mind, it began to look as though quarterbacks were walking hand in hand with the Macy's balloons down the yellow brick road.

"Look," the Canadian said uneasily, "If I'm annoying you, I can go home. I'm still kind of full from my Thanksgiving meal-"

"No," Alfred came as close as he ever did to looking reticent, "No. It's fine," he finally settled on _The Wizard of Oz_, although his eyes wandered from the screen constantly.

"So."

"Yeah," Matt searched his mind for a safe topic to discuss. Finding none that would not strike his brother as curious and out of place, he opted to ask "Are you going to the World Conference weekend?"

Alfred looked at him suspiciously, "Sure I am. Why wouldn't I? No-one's skipped one in decades."

"No reason. Just asking I guess," Matt said as he toyed with the oven mitt that sat in his lap, "I'm kind of looking forward to seeing everyone."

"Yeah. It'll be good to see Feliks and Toris and some of the other guys," Alfred agreed absently. He paused for a time, eyes looking straight through the scene on the television set, "What are you thankful for Matt?"

"Hm. I don't know," the man considered, "Friends, family. The usual things, eh? I'm thankful for things being the same as ever-" he tried not to let his eyes widen too much with the horror of how callous his own somewhat careless words must have sounded, "What about you?"

"Yeah. The usual stuff," Alfred sniffed the air with a frown, "Isn't that... Oh shit, you forgot the turkey!"

With a yelp Matt tore into the kitchen with his brother, pulling open the oven door and hacking a little at the smoke that came out with the scorched turkey.

"Damn," Matt sighed, studying the bird from all angles as though hoping the damage done was imagined or immaterial, "I totally forgot."

"It's punishment for picking that weird-ass French recipe," Alfred scowled, wrinkling his nose at the smell of the burnt meat and the strong citron smell of the glaze, "We'll just have to find somewhere to get take-out."

"Sorry. I'll get my jacket. It's on me," Matt said glumly, striding off to get his shoes and coat. Upon his return, he stood in silence as he watched his brother. The man had taken up the baster and was poking the spoiled food with a look that was almost nostalgic and more than anything else, was lonely.

"Hey," the word prompted the American to turn around, expression still a little saddened, as though still resurfacing from his own reflections and memories, "I'm hungry. And I said I was paying, even if you have third helpings or whatever," Matt said, "So grab your jacket, Al." 

_**November 27th, London**_

When Arthur felt himself become tempted to turn over in his bed after having turned off his alarm clock, he recalled Matt's words: the Conference was his one opportunity to right his wrongs. So, as appealing as the warm covers were, the Englishman pulled himself up out of the bed and sat down at his desk, studying his to-do list.

He made a simple breakfast of buttered toast and ate it there at his desk. As the hour became a reasonable one, he rang several numbers he had jotted down and made arrangements. Afterwards, he sent off a quick email to Yao asking him how his own preparations were going. It came as something of a surprise to Arthur as he realised at last that he was still sat in his night clothes. He looked down at the old football jersey and gave the fabric a gentle stroke.

Onward, he thought to himself, and, after a hasty bath and a shave he was back at his desk eating a sandwich. His eyes were now trained on a sketch of the country house, writing various names onto the different bedrooms. He crossed a few out, added a few others until the order suited his needs. In spite of himself, he felt his heart grow a little lighter as the thought crossed his mind that he had over a month until the Conference weekend: there was time, Arthur told himself, and if there was time, there was the chance of creating a remedy.

Some time that afternoon Arthur realised he had left his mobile phone somewhere and, after some thought and a little hunting he discovered the object in the pocket of a pair of jeans.

He opened a text from Ludwig and instantly began to frown.

"_Arthur," _the message ran, _"You have no concept of discretion, do you? I asked for an explanation as to what efforts I might take to "invigorate" my sexual relationship with Feliciano. What you supplied me with was an explicit example of the previous exchanges between yourself and Alfred. Feliciano read your "fantasy". He is now under the impression that I am the other man in this fantasy (as no mention is made to Alfred, you may recall). As a result, our relationship appears to be at an end._

_How would you prefer to die Arthur? I believe it would be advisable for you to tell me your preference as Feliciano is unlikely to give you a choice in the matter. Ludwig"_

That evening, an email from Feliciano reached Arthur's inbox.

_Arthur,_ the message began, _This is a warning: when we next meet I will end you for taking Ludwig from me._

_Consider this a vendetta,_

_Feliciano_

Having read the words, Arthur found himself wishing instead that the World Conference was a lot further away than a few measly weeks' time.

**A/N**

**Thanksgiving – **Canada's Thanksgiving Day is in October, but I imagine Alfred dragged Matt down for company on the 26th.


	10. Chapter 10

**(Points to whoever can guess what book Feliciano is reading in this chapter.)**

_**December 3**__**rd**__**, London**_

There had been far too many times in Arthur's life when he had hidden in his house, the bolt drawn on the door. He had done so to avoid James, Liam and Dylan for various reasons over the centuries, the men typically planting themselves outside and banging on the door until the paint began to crack from the effort, all the while cursing Arthur up and down in languages he didn't understand, although their tones always managed to make their meanings abundantly clear.

At other times he had drawn the bolt on invasions and then the door of whatever hovel or cottage he had been residing in had never proven strong enough. After that, it was a case of grudgingly learning a bit of Danish, Norse or French, eating some new and unpleasant foods and wearing another absurd set of clothes until someone else came to disturb his peace.

The occasion that stuck out most vividly in his memory, however, was 1776. There had been no new culture with which to reluctantly entertain himself then, nor had there been any amusing and colourful language being flung about outside. Rather, Arthur had locked the front door and been left to his own devices, sat drinking endless cups of tea until he could scarcely taste the drink any longer. Rather, Arthur recalled sitting and thinking as hard as he could about not giving in to the temptation to think about what had just transpired and what he had just lost.

It was therefore with something akin to relief that he heard the firm, heavy rap of knuckles on his door as it at least stopped him from once again considering what he had potentially lost. Also, the knock was readily identifiable as Ludwig's, not Feliciano's, and as curious as the idea was to him, Arthur fancied his chances better against the German.

"Get it over with, Arthur," he muttered to himself by way of a command and with only a little hesitation he got to his feet and went to open the door. Ludwig met his eye the instant the door swung open through his own narrowed blue ones.

"Did you pick a method?"

Arthur frowned in thought then gave a nod of understanding, "Oh, of how I want to die? No. I'd prefer not to, actually, if that's alright. You see, I-" Mid-sentence, the German made a lunge for him and Arthur opted to jog backward down the hall, quickly turning about as he made the living room and darting around the back of his sofa. The German stood on the other side of the chair and continued to stare him down, looking to Arthur not unlike a guard dog that had cornered a robber.

"Arthur. What were you thinking?"

The pair broke into another run, coming to a halt with Ludwig behind the sofa back and Arthur in front. The Englishman winced.

"Me and computers don't get along, alright? I wanted to attach that "story" as a file but I had no clue how to do it. Besides, I thought it best to give you an example because just telling you to write a sexy email or letter would no doubt have led to you just writing some sort of sex instruction manual," Arthur frowned, "Frankly, I thought that was one of my better examples-"

"Feliciano didn't think so," Ludwig said pointedly, and the Englishman's humour left him in a flash. He shot Ludwig a remorseful look, although he remained tensed all the while, ready to try and outrun the man again if the need arose.

"I am really sorry. I never would have thought that he'd go on your computer, or that he'd reach such a conclusion. No offence, but there must have been some other problem if he did react so badly, don't you think?"

Ludwig's anger seemed to slide into sadness, his expression becoming downcast, although his hands still gripped the sofa tightly, "I can only assume so. You failed to offer any substantial help with those underlying matters either."

"I am sorry, Ludwig."

"I know," head snapping up, he shot Arthur another sharp look, "I still want to kill you though."

They swapped places once more, Arthur beginning to feel slightly winded from the exertion of darting about the furniture again, whilst Ludwig - to his disconcertion - seemed unfazed.

"Don't."

"Why not? It would make me feel better," the German drew himself up to his full height, which made Arthur's own shoulders slump. Swallowing weakly, he played what he saw as his last hope, his "ace in the hole".

"Don't because it won't help matters. You've got nothing left to lose but you've got everything to gain," Arthur said, somewhat desperately, "And I'm one of a very select number of people who will try to help you."

Ludwig's confused and near stunned look prompted him to explain, "To the rest of the world, it looks like you were a heartless bastard who trampled on Feliciano's heart in order to get to me. I, in turn, look like a heartless bastard because of what I said to Alfred. No doubt they'll have told some of the others about what's happened. I think, therefore, we'd do well to stick together."

With some reluctance, Ludwig let go of the sofa.

"I see your point," he admitted.

"I'm glad. So, shall we try and put our heads together about all this?"

"What can we do?" the German asked, walking around the sofa to sit down upon it, unusually slumped for the usually straight-backed man, "I cannot see a solution."

"We have one opportunity. The Conference," Arthur said, "I suggest, to begin with, that our correspondence turns toward ideas of how to lure Alfred and Feliciano into situations where we look like attractive prospects once again."

In spite of his nodding, Ludwig noted, "You make it sound like we're hunting them."

"Hunting them out _love_," the Englishman stood up and looked back at his guest, "Right, so now that's settled, first things first: I'll put the kettle on."

"You realise," Ludwig called after the man's retreating form, "That I have already set in place a measure trying to bring you and Alfred back together?"

The Englishman's head poked back into the hall to give him a puzzled look, "Oh?"

"Yes. I imagine the plan is being carried out as we speak. We can only hope it is effective, ja?"

_**December 16**__**th**__**, NYC**_

"Why don't you work?" Alfred asked the metal box in front of him. A green light that shouldn't have been flashing flashed by way of an answer and so Alfred hit the device again with a screwdriver.

"Piece of junk", he muttered, flinching at his own words since they naturally reflected on his own abilities, "What the hell could be wrong with you, huh?"

"Well, if you keep beating it so, there is no wonder that it does not work," a completely unexpected voice offered, "Why not try and kiss it better? Or should I?"

Alfred frowned as he turned to study the figure in the doorway, his arm reluctant to return the defensively raised screwdriver to his side in spite of the fact that he had identified the man.

"Francis? The fuck?"

The Frenchman reached out, caught the man's hand and lowered it enough to plant a quick, chivalrous kiss on the back of Alfred's hand, "It has been a long time, Alfred. How are you?"

"Fine," the American gave his hand an unnecessary wipe on his trouser leg, "But why the hell are you in my house? How did you even get in?

"What is that poor abused little contraption, anyway?" Francis asked cheerfully, walking up alongside the man's workbench and studying it from all sides as though it were a work of art. Alfred quickly draped himself over the box with a yell, shooing the man with one hand.

"Hey! Classified! You haven't even got clearance to be _stood_ in here, beardface!"

The name caused Francis to raise an eyebrow and, with something of a saunter, he raised his hands in surrender and took several slow strides backward.

" "Beardface"? I wasn't aware anyone else called me that," he said, in a deep, thoughtful voice.

"Why the hell are you here? I'm coming damn close to getting you deported," Alfred said.

"_Matthieu_ was kind enough to invite me over. Ludwig and Feliciano's break up has made Europe something of a battle field, so I was very grateful for the offer."

"But Matt's staying with _me._"

Francis gave an easy nod, "_D'accord_. So here I am, as Matthew's guest, whilst he is yours. I will cook to earn my keep if you are that reluctant for me to remain."

With obvious distaste, the American sighed, "Fine. Whatever: stay, don't stay, I don't care. Just don't go wandering around like that again. Everything in here is private."

"Very well," Francis consulted his watch, "It is nearing lunch; I imagine you will wish to finish your tinkering so I say _au revoir pour maintenant. _I shall see you at the dining table_._"

The door of the work room closed and Alfred gave the machine another blow with his screwdriver, this time leaving a dent and causing another light to blink at him. Something about the light, a small red warning light, caused his brain to flash up a question he had forgotten to pose the Frenchman. Dropping the screwdriver, Alfred tore out of the room and found Francis down the hall, his head inclined towards Matthew's in conversation. The pair stepped apart as Alfred appeared, Francis casually sending the man a glance, Matthew looking a little awkward, glancing around and about his brother as opposed to straight at him.

"Okay, Francis, so you're staying," Alfred nodded his acceptance of the matter, "How much luggage did you pack exactly? How long is this invite for?"

Alfred had a sinking suspicion he already knew the answer and the casual, open handed shrug the Frenchman offered confirmed the worst.

"For "the holidays" as you would say. I shall be here for Christmas, naturally."

"For... ten days?" Alfred asked weakly.

"Oh, at the very least," the man said with an enigmatic smile.

_**December 15th,  
From Ludwig to Kirkland, A.  
**_  
Arthur,

Unsurprisingly, I have no plans for the Christmas break and I wondered, if you too find yourself in the same situation whether you would like to stay at mine? I am aware that you are still making last minute plans for the Conference but should you wish to stay you would have access to my office and computers so there should be no difficulties in continuing with your preparations.

If you are staying with your brothers please ignore this offer, I simply wished to put my suggestion forward. It might do you well to have a chance of scenery.

Ludwig

_**December 15**__**th**__**,  
From Kirkland, A. to Ludwig**_

Ludwig,

The last time any of my brothers invited me to _stay_ for Christmas, as opposed to just inviting me over for Christmas Dinner, we were all wearing doublet and hose.

It's a kind offer and I'll accept, if you're really sure about it. I suppose it would be a good idea if we took this opportunity to meet up again before the Conference to go over some final "strategies" in person,

See you in a week or so,

Arthur

P.S. Don't take offence but will your brother be there? I just need to mentally prepare myself if that is the case.

_****__**December 18th,  
From Alfred Jones to Feliciano!**_

Hey,

I haven't been in touch for a while, I guess. I'm sorry about that. We've both been kind of busy recently.

I'll sure you're sick of hearing it but I am real sorry to hear about you and Ludwig. Did he say why he wanted to end things? I always thought of him as a dependable kind of guy, but then I guess anyone can surprise you.

What are you doing for the holidays? Matthew's staying at my place and so is your "big brother" Francis on Matt's invite. He practically invited himself though, it's weird. Do you know why he'd want to stay at mine? I mean, it's not like I have what he would call good food or "culture" or any of the crap he likes. It just seems like there must be some other reason for it. I really don't trust the guy. I know you like him but he's beginning to creep me out. My apartment is big but he's always just a room away, or like he'll appear in the hall at the exact same time I do. It's beyond coincidence. And then, whenever we do see each other, he'll start flirting. I'm really getting pissed about it.

Anyway, I'll try to have a good Christmas and I hope you do as well.

I'll see you in January,

Alfred,

P.S. It might be a good idea, if we can wrangle it, to try and swap rooms somehow at the Conference so we end up as far as away as we can get from Arthur and Ludwig. I know we're not supposed to do that but everyone does, right? I'm not above some money changing hands to get things our way. Let me know what you think.

_**December 19**__**th**__**,  
From Feliciano! to Alfred Jones**_

Hey Alfred,

I don't want to talk about Ludwig. He just told me it was over. He didn't give a reason and neither of us did anything to make him end things. I suppose he was never happy with me.

I'm staying with Lovino and Antonio at Lovino's place for Christmas, which should be fun. Since our celebrations continue into January we'll not have long before we have to pack our suitcases and head to England for the Conference. We're not planning on doing anything special, we're just spending a quiet Christmas with lots of food.

I didn't know Francis was planning on going away for Christmas (he usually finds someone to keep him company, if you know what I mean). He's not a bad guy, really. Just don't take anything he does too seriously. Oh and ask him to make Bûche de Noël, it's really delicious.

About the conference, well, we can try I guess. I'd like to end up sharing with you if I could. Arthur is probably going to give you a bedroom far away and mine will be away from Ludwig's. Those two will want to have rooms next to each other, so it may be that our rooms are already going to be near each other or we'll be sharing.

Have a good holiday and New Year and wish your brother and big brother the same from me, okay?

I'll see you in January.

_****__**December 19th, NYC**_

"Hey, Francis?"

"Oui?"

"Could you make some, err... "Bûche de Noël"?"

The Frenchman went quickly from looking stunned to looking flattered, "Certainly. I, er, well, I was not aware you knew such food existed."

Alfred fought back a look of contempt, "Oh? Well, I do."

The older man strode into the kitchen, followed by Alfred, and acquainted himself quickly with the room's layout, grabbing a baking tin and going methodically through each cupboard and overhead counter, taking ingredients from each in turn with a final, satisfied mutter of "Okay". Afterwards, the man looked at each of the ingredients, even the eggs he had taken from the refrigerator, Alfred saw, with either distaste or disappointment.

"I will have to adjust the recipe. You do not exactly what I would have wished for," the man said sadly, before adding, "You can help me," Francis rolled up his sleeves, washing his hands and beginning to grease the tin, "Here, take these and rub the butter and sugar together for the buttercream."

"Er, okay," Alfred followed suit by washing his hands and began to do so, liking the feel of getting his hands a little cruddy and dirty.

The Frenchman worked in near silence, humming snatches of melody every so often, before he turned to Alfred and shot him a look a slightly conspiratorial look.

"This is pleasant."

"I guess so."

"And we must take advantage of this holiday to eat up and get a little fat before we head to Arthur's," Francis said, with a tone of foreboding, "I fear we will be left underwhelmed by the fare available there."

Alfred focused on grinding the sugar into the butter more vigorously.

"I suppose you know," Francis said next, as he poured the batter into the tin, "That me and Arthur once used to come and go together, as it were?" the man seemed to approve of his own choice of words.

"Yeah, I did. He told me," Alfred said, his tone staccato, "What about it?"

The Frenchman gave a shrug, "I wondered if you had ever questioned the man about it?" he unearthed from somewhere an old bottle of wine and, after a curious, permission seeking look at Alfred, uncorked it. Pouring them both a glass he took a sip, sliding the baking tin into the oven with a glance at the kitchen clock, "If you were curious about such things, that is."

"I guess I did, once. He didn't answer," Alfred drank his own wine a little too quick, swallowing a cough afterwards and speaking hoarsely, "It doesn't matter now," against his will, he felt his heart skip a little, "Are you together again or something?"

Francis gave him a disgusted look over his glass rim, "Non. I think not," he finished his drink, "It was always very strange with Arthur. He was always with someone else."

"You mean he two-timed you?"

"Non," Francis shook his head, "We never "dated", but I mean that we would be in bed and I would be..." he simply smiled rather than vocalised the thought, "Or he would be," again he smiled, "And we were never doing those things to each other. Or, if we were actually doing those things to each other, we came away rather bruised and battered from a few too many friendly slaps and punches. It is not good to do that too often."

"He was thinking about someone else," Alfred said, realising his hands inside the bowl had stopped moving altogether.

"Perhaps," Francis added, as a final thought on the matter, "Still, it was enjoyable. He is different in bed, less dusty and stuffy, less like one of his old books and more like the rough, dirty little secrets they contain, non? He has no real style or technique but his enthusiasm is very commendable," the man looked down at the abandoned buttercream, "I will show you how to do it properly."

Before Alfred could stop him the Frenchman was stood at his back, leaning over his shoulder slightly so that he could find and cup the backs of Alfred's hands and direct them down into the bowl once again.

"More like this," Francis murmured, "_Persuade_ it to do as you wish, don't bully it, Alfred."

The American complied, all the while desperately trying to keep himself from either blushing or flinching at the touch. He couldn't help but feel, as Francis continued to stroke his hands into complying with his instructions, that the ingredients had been "persuaded" minutes before. Alfred tried to find the resolve to simply tell the man to quit whatever he was doing, as oppose to taking a more physical and violent approach. It was with gratitude, therefore, that Alfred heard his brother enter the kitchen.

"Um," Matthew studied the pair and, in particular, the rather satisfied expression Francis was sporting, "Am I interrupting something?"

"Of course not," Francis smiled, "You are always welcome. Here, help me beat these eggs for the meringue, _Matthieu_."

The Canadian, Alfred was sad to see, doomed himself by walking over to the Frenchman's side without a thought. The sacrifice did, however, give Alfred a chance to make good an escape.

_**December 19**__**th**__**,  
From Ludwig to Kirkland, A**_

Arthur,

I am pleased that you have chosen to stay. I will pick you up from the airport, it is not a problem. Actually, my brother isn't here for the holidays (he's either been invited to stay with Roderich or he's invited himself, it wasn't clear). It seems pointless and, excuse me for saying so, pathetic for us to spend Christmas alone.

I have had a few more ideas about the Conference that I will discuss with you in person. Still, as much as you do not wish to hear it, I feel the activities you have selected for the weekend are in themselves inherently flawed both from the point of view of enabling us to attempt to reconcile our relationships and from the point of view of encouraging better relationships with the others as well. We have discussed already the one activity which I find very unadvisable. Please reconsider _that_ activity, Arthur.

Ludwig

_**December 19**__**th**__**,  
From Kirkland, A. to Ludwig**_

Ludwig,

No. I've paid and there's no chance of me getting a refund now. It's happening.

Let's just hope Alfred and Feliciano are on our team otherwise we really are dead,

Arthur


	11. Chapter 11

_**December 20th**_

"I'm rather looking forward to your rivers turning to wine you know," Arthur said, settled on Ludwig's sofa. It felt strange beneath him, both because it wasn't one of the many sofas he was used to, such as his own old lumpy sofa or Alfred's monstrous, bright blue one. Also, he could almost sensed how other people had sat upon the piece of furniture, did so regularly, snuggling up into a certain dip in the cushions. One of those people, Arthur realised, was almost certainly Feliciano. Thinking about the Italian made Arthur feel a little less hungry for the gingerbread that Ludwig had left on the coffee table for him to snack on. Still, he helped himself to another piece for politeness' sake, feeling even queasier when he considered, against his will, the distinct possibility of the other activities Ludwig and Feliciano had probably engaged in on innocuous looking sofa.

"What? Wine?" the German swallowed a mouthful of gingerbread himself, "Oh, you mean the old legend? Arthur, whilst you may believe in the supernatural, I do not think any amount of being pure of heart is going to turn my rivers into alcohol for you. Are you ready to go out?"

"Sure. I'll grab my coat and scarf."

The Christmas market rather tested Arthur's ability to remain indifferent and detached, awakening in him as it did a warming, all-encompassing sort of joy. There was, he realised as they walked through the crowded rows of stalls, something subtly magical about the countless strands of lights and the wreaths hung from each stall, separating the market somehow from the rest of the normal, day to day life of the city.

"If we weren't on a mission right now," Arthur said, just loud enough for Ludwig to hear, head inclined and hat pushed up over one ear, "I'd say you're trying to show off with this place. My Christmas markets look a lot more like car boot sales."

Ludwig allowed himself the slightest of satisfied smiles, "As you say, we are on a mission. I think we will find what we want here," he added, a little more subdued, "Feliciano is very fond of these markets too. He likes how many of the goods are hand-made."

They stopped at a stall to buy snacks and _Glühwein _and then continued on their way down the rows of stalls, peering into each as they passed by, until, at length, Ludwig tapped Arthur purposefully on the shoulder and gestured with a nod of his head to a stall a little way down the row.

"Ah. Well spotted," the pair stepped inside the stall to study more closely a range of decorative notebooks and photo albums for sale. Decisively, Arthur picked up and studied a simple album made of plain hand stitched leather.

"This one," he said, "This one is good," with an ingratiating smile he held it out to Ludwig, who sighed.

"You don't even know how to say "I'd like this one, please?""

"Not in a conventional, recommendable manner, no. I can gesticulate, speak very loudly and hope I get my point across, but that's about it," the German was already paying as he spoke, taking the euro notes the Englishman offered him afterwards, "Thanks awfully."

"Thank me by looking for an art stall."

They continued walking, Arthur swinging the bag with the photo album a little as they went, "I meant to ask you what the reasoning is behind the art print. Surely Feliciano owns plenty of art."

"Sure," Ludwig agreed after eating a candied almond, "But I don't."

"Then why on earth are you buying _yourself_ something?" Arthur pulled his scarf closer about him, burying his frowning mouth beneath it, "Need I remind you of the plan? We're buying gifts for our boys. To show them we've not given up, that we still care and that we're sorry. How on earth does buying _yourself_ art help matters?"

"You do not understand," Ludwig said, coming to a halt in front of a stall with a selection of prints with a sharp look in his eye, his attention wholly turned to the task of looking through the collection, "Feliciano commented several times on how empty my house is. I admit, I live in a somewhat Spartan manner. We discussed it once and he asked me whether it was because I did not like art; I told him that that was not so, that I just owned very few pieces or prints and that naturally he owned more because he paints himself."

He thumbed through the selection of famous prints, mostly classical pieces, Arthur noticed, from Van Gogh to Da Vinci, Dali to Hopper, "He encouraged me to buy some artwork, even if the pieces were merely prints. I never got around to doing so."

"I see," Arthur studied the man, "Are you looking for something in particular?"

Moving on to another rack of prints, Ludwig nodded, "A particular artist, yes."

"Want any help?"

"No. It's fine, really."

Arthur waited in silence for the man, taking out the photo album from its carrier and giving it a careful study, opening it carefully and studying the thick brown paper of each page, and the crucial space for comments on each photograph. He began to envision the order of photographs when he caught sight of the German pulling a print out of the selection.

"It's this one," the man said and Arthur glanced up to study the piece: Botticelli, he realised, one of the man's pieces featuring the Madonna, Child and Angels, "I meant to get this one," Arthur couldn't help but notice how the German's eyes strayed rather from the painting's focus of the sombre mother and child to the angels, wide eyed, thoughtful and youthful, their faces framed by reddish curls.

"Are you going to mail the print?" Arthur asked later as they made to return to Ludwig's house, packing their bags into the backseat of the man's car, "I thought you said Feliciano wanted _you_ to have more artwork at your house."

"Indeed. I did say that. I do not plan to post the print."

"Then," Arthur frowned, studying the darkening streets they passed and the occasional twinkle of lights from a Christmas tree, "How will he know about it?"

Ludwig's eyes stayed fixed upon the road ahead of him but Arthur caught how the light within them changed to something wistful.

"He won't," the man said, "But, if he were to come back to me, it would be there, waiting for him."

The pair spent the rest of the night apart although both stayed in the house, Ludwig in his study managing, to the Englishman's surprise, to find something project to work at in spite of how close to Christmas they were, whilst Arthur sat in the living room. The man was working his way through a small box of photographs, a mixture of his own and the ones that Alfred had mailed back to him that he had brought with him, ready for the photo-album. He sorted through the pictures carefully, trying not to linger on or study any too long, reminding himself of the need to get the present mailed tomorrow morning.

Arthur placed each photograph carefully and squarely onto their respective pages in silence, the repetitive nature of the task somehow easing his mind. After each one, he took up his fountain pen from the dining table and, with a brow creased in thought, inscribed a message beside each shot.

_**December 21**__**st**__**, Berlin **_

"What the hell are you doing, Ludwig? It sounds like you've got a herd of wild elephants in there." Arthur's conversation came to a halt as he was forced to back himself up flat to one wall to allow two delivery men, aided by Ludwig, to carry a large metal bed frame into Ludwig's bedroom.

The Englishman stayed fixed to the spot as he peered into the room and watched how the group folded the old army cot and replaced it with the metal frame. One man returned down the corridor and outside to a van to bring in some additional poles and fixings and, curiously, an old suitcase. After that, there was a mutter of conversation in German, paperwork was signed and the pair left. Arthur waited for Ludwig to re-emerge from the bedroom but after some minutes the sounds of metal being lifted, slotted and screwed into place reached the Englishman instead.

The pensive, intensely private look that had appeared on Ludwig's face with the delivery prompted Arthur to leave the man to his own devices. The Englishman opted to make himself a snack and return to the living room where he began reading an English translation of Steppenwolf he had found tucked away between other volumes on Ludwig's bookcase. In the inner cover he noted an inscription written in a firm, thin hand: _"With my love. I do not think you will enjoy it, however."_

He had begun to fall into the intense, cloying narrative when the German called him. As requested, Arthur joined Ludwig in the bedroom. He instantly walked to the man's side and did precisely as Ludwig was doing: he studied the assembled bed with a thoughtful frown.

It was an old bed made of brass, the headboard consisting of intricately twisted and twining strips that almost resembled a living vine. From each corner, a delicate, bronze coloured pole rose up to form the box of a canopy. It was the fabric that was draped over this frame, forming a delicate canopy and curtains covering every side of the bed that really caught the attention, however. They were gossamer, a near transparent white, like a delicate membrane protecting the bed over which it hung. Countless pillows were piled up at the head of the bed. The word for it, Arthur supposed, coming to his senses, was heavenly.

"Did you know about this?" he asked the German, quietly. Ludwig scarcely seemed to register the question.

"I thought he had cancelled the delivery," as though it formed part of the same thought, the German added, "It is beautiful. He was right."

"It is. It's gorgeous."

With some physical effort Ludwig seemed to tear his eyes away from the bed, murmuring, "I can't sleep in it. It's not mine. I'll take Gilbert's old bed for now," louder, he addressed Arthur in the authoritative tone the man employed at meetings, "We need to discuss the matter of the Conference in further detail, Arthur. Time is running out." 

_**December 24**__**th**__**, Rome**_

"I still don't like having a damn tree, you know," Lovino said, giving the innocent looking pine tree in one corner of his living room a nasty look as though to prove his point, "They just shed needles everywhere," he paused to give a sniff, "The smell makes me think of new cars, too."

"I think it looks fine. Feliciano decorated it beautifully," Antonio said with a smile, taking in the sight of the colourful baubles intermingled with simple sprigs of faux berries and golden bells, all of these offset and made to sparkle by the tree's plain white lights that looked almost like the light of stars or the flames of candles.

"I helped," Lovino muttered, eying his side of the tree, which looked a little overcrowded and faced the living room wall. The man gave his watch a wide-mouthed yawn as he studied it, "Mass soon," he sent his brother a look, seeing no discernable reaction to his words, "Feliciano, you're coming right? First time you've been this year, I'm guessing?"

Feliciano was sat curled up in one chair across the other side of the room, "reading" an old worn copy of a Mann novel. The sight was one that was beginning to grate on Lovino. It was in fact the only activity the man had repeatedly returned thus far in his stay in Rome. Granted, Lovino had convinced his brother to accompany him shopping in the city, he had gone with the man to collect Antonio from the airport and he had helped him to prepare the evening's fish yet at every opportunity Feliciano would stray back to his novel, curled up in the nearest chair. The strangest thing about it was the fact that Feliciano didn't even seem to be enjoying the book, his expression instantly souring as soon as he raised the book before his face.

At length, Feliciano roused himself from whatever reverie he had fallen into and looked across at his brother, "What? Oh, yes, I'll come with you."

"Antonio said the tree looked good," Lovino said, coolly, "And I said I don't like it."

"Yeah," Feliciano closed his book at length and placed it on the arm of his chair, "Okay."

His own efforts to keep himself collected were failing, Lovino realised, from the way he was beginning to grit his teeth ever so slightly. Worse still was the fact that Antonio was shooting him a pointed and concerned look. The older Italian gave a snort of a sigh and walked up along side his brother's chair.

"Are you okay? Since you "ran away" you've been acting weird," he said, bluntly, eyebrows drawn.

Feliciano frowned up at him, a look of confusion passing over his face before he apparently grasped the meaning of "ran away"

"Oh. Well, you know about me and Ludwig," Lovino tried even harder to rein in his escalating rage by giving a sharp nod, "I told you why I lied: I needed go away and clear my head. And I said I was sorry about lying to you and for Ludwig ringing you and for him getting angry with you and-"

"Yeah, can it," Lovino said, waving a hand in irritation and beginning to pace in front of the chair.

The Spaniard studied the pair with an openly concerned look, "We're both sorry about everything that happened with you and Ludwig, really."

"No, don't be," Feliciano's voice changed at that, its previous note of cool detachment replaced with fiery anger. Lovino found himself watching his brother in surprise, "He's a bastard. Him and Arthur, both."

Antonio stepped up alongside Lovino, wearing a familiar look at the name of the Englishman, the Italian noticed, that bittersweet sort of nostalgia for his Armada that often remained dormant for years on end. Still, the man managed to rouse himself enough to pose Feliciano a question.

"Why do you say that? What happened with Arthur?"

Tapping the arm of his chair with the spine of the old book, Feliciano shrugged, "Ludwig was lying to me. He told me about this "agreement" he had with a "correspondent". It turns out that that meant he was fucking Arthur. I found a dirty email from Arthur. It makes sense," the man said, curtly, "Arthur broke up with Alfred a while before that."

"I'm sorry," Antonio reached out and gave the Italian a pat on the arm. The gesture hardly registered with Lovino, however. By contrast, the other Italian took a step backward, his expression guarded one moment then openly furious the next, his face going its usual shade of tomato red.

Antonio and Feliciano both stared at him in puzzlement, Antonio looking ready to reach out and give the man a joyous sort of hug, when Lovino grabbed his brother by the shirt front, yanked him to his feet and shook him.

"Wha-Lovino? What the hell?"

"Don't make me say it! Ah, you idiot! I can't believe you're going to make me say it!" The man seemed unable to keep himself from temptation and gave his brother an impassioned head butt. In his current, unusually moody state that was enough to make Feliciano stop attempting to struggle away and instead grapple his brother in turn. His hands went for the man's hair and, with some effort, the younger brother got a grip on the other man's curl, catching it about the base with his fingernails.

"Ah, bastard! Ow, you're pinching it!" Lovino yelped, going stock, "Stop it!"

"I'll yank it out," Feliciano hissed back at him, giving another experimental pinch, "I just told Arthur I've got a fucking vendetta on his life, don't think I wouldn't yank-"

Antonio appeared to realise himself at the words and grabbed a surprised Feliciano about the waist. The Italian's hands let go off his brother in his shock, allowing Antonio to all but tackle him out of reach of his older brother.

"Please," the Spaniard whispered, in something of a supplication to Feliciano, "I need that thing. Please."

Feliciano, whilst apparently content to remain sat on the floor, pinned by Antonio, continued to pant for breath and study his brother intently.

"Don't make you say what?" he said, his hand straying to and rubbing his sore forehead.

"Ah, _accidenti,_" Lovino gently checked his curl and head in general for damage, shooting his little brother looks of amazement as he grew yet redder, a scowl firmly etched on his features, "Do you think I _want_ to have to say it? I mean, I _hate_ that guy. I hate his stupid, macho-"

"So do I!"

"No, Feliciano, you don't get it," with a slow, purposeful breath in and out, Lovino finally spoke in an uncharacteristically quiet voice for the man that made him shake with the effort it took to maintain, "...I think you're wrong. About Ludwig."

Feliciano's expression clouded over once again and Antonio quickly made to grab one of the man's hands again as a precaution.

Lovino looked even queasier as he forced out his final words in the same level tone, "The thing is-Well, he's an idiot, and he can't cook, and he smells of potatoes and sausage and he's way too brawny and he's really scary but... The guy; he's, well," he closed his eyes tight as though steeling himself, "The guy is _okay_. Okay?" he let himself snarl a little, whilst his brother stared at him in complete silence.

"He's _okay_," Lovino said, with slightly more restraint, walking over to Antonio's side and giving the man a look daring him to comment, "And there's no way in hell he'd have the initiative or balls to ask out anyone else. I've seen how he is, or _was_ with you, and the guy cares about you, Feliciano. I've never seen him show interest in anyone or anything else; well, except beer-"

"Then what the hell did I find? What was that email?" Feliciano said, his tone a mixture of a furious challenge to Lovino's words and a desperate plea for an answer. His brother could only offer a sigh and a shrug.

"I don't know. I just know what I see when I see you two together and I don't see a two-timing bastard; I see my brother and his potato bastard boyfriend, alright? So..." Again, the temptation to head butt something seemed to cross Lovino's mind, but the man stayed put, "Maybe keep from killing anyone just yet. Murdering the host of the "Diplomacy and Developing Relationships" theme Conference weekend would be a bad idea."

"Fine," subdued, Feliciano got to his feet, only meeting his brother's and Antonio's eyes fleetingly as he did so, "I'm going to go for a walk before Mass, okay? I'll meet you there," he chanced a glance at his older brother's curl, "I didn't hurt you too badly, right?"

"You wouldn't be breathing still if you had. We'll see you there."

The door closed and Lovino gave Antonio a hearty scowl, encouraged by the Spaniard's beaming, proud smile.

"What, idiot?"

"That was so kind of you, Lovi!" Antonio grinned, hands balled in ecstatic fists either side of his face, "I always knew you were a little bit like your brother at heart!"

"Hey! What the hell does that mean?" the other man growled, "He's goddamn like me, the fool just tried to kill me!"

"I suppose so," Antonio's smile turned impish as he eyed Lovino's curl himself, "Want me to kiss anything better for you?"

**A/N**

**Botticelli**** –**Whilst it could be one of a number of his paintings from the description this is the picture I have in mind. A lot of Botticelli's angels, to my mind, look suspiciously like a certain somebody.

**Steppenwolf – **A novel by German author Herman Hesse about a misanthropic man who feels split between his humanity and his wolf-like aggression and desires.

**Accidenti -** Damn it.


	12. Chapter 12

_**December 25**__**th**__**, Rome**_

It came as a relief to Feliciano to feel himself smile as they tried to navigate Rome's crowded streets and make their way back to Lovino's. After his somewhat masochistic mood of the previous week it felt like a relief to be able to abandon that horrible book that Ludwig enjoyed so much and simply look out upon the beautiful town, to take in the sight of smiling and laughing families and crowds of friends with an empty and peaceful mind.

The trio passed a large, vibrantly lit nativity scene and Feliciano paused for a moment to study it, letting some of its warmth enter into himself and trying to let the scene warm him and bring back some of his hope. As he did so he couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed for his recent actions, remembering in particular how he had had to go outside not so long ago in Venice to clear away the shards of his destroyed phone, his own underwear and his iron cross from the street outside his window.

"_Feliz Navidad_, Feliciano," Antonio said, linking arms with the man as they began to move again, weaving through the crowds. Feliciano felt his pace slowed as his older brother roughly shoved his own arm through Antonio's on the man's other side.

"Thank you," the younger Italian smiled. He gave a glance to the lit up, golden facade of a church as they passed by, "Hey, Antonio, do you make wishes on things at Christmas at your place?"

The man considered the question for a moment before giving a shrug stunted by his hold on both brothers, "Eh, not really."

"You should just do it," It took Feliciano a moment to realise the words hadn't come from Antonio but rather his brother, "If you really wanna, do it. Whoever's you think is up there looking out for you will be listening, it doesn't matter what the day is."

Feliciano smiled and closed his eyes as he made his wish. He let himself be guided by his brother and the man's lover through the thinning crowds, happy to trust them not to lead him astray.

"_Buon Natale,"_ he murmured as they continued to wind their way home without falter.

"_Buon Natale, fratello,"_ came a mumble from the Spaniard's other side. 

_**December 25**__**th**_

Arthur teetered on his dining chair as the cracker broke in two with a satisfying "snap". The German pulled out the green paper hat from his end and, after an expectant look from Arthur, placed it on his head, where it threaten to slip over one eye. Shaking the rest of the cracker's contents onto the table, he picked up and considered the tiny calculator that had fallen out.

"Is there a joke?"

Ludwig studied the table top for a moment before taking up the cracker again and discovering a slip of paper still stuck inside the tube. After studying it for a moment, he said solemnly, "It depends upon your definition of a "joke"."

Reaching across the ruins of another cracker, Arthur helped himself to some more mulled wine from a pitcher and leant back in his chair, his own bright red hat managing to stay put in spite of his angle.

Tilting his head to one side he gave the richly decorated tree in the corner of the living room a slow, fond look before finding his voice.

"Happy Christmas, Ludwig. I know this isn't what you were imagining for Christmas this year, but I hope this has made things a little better than they might have been otherwise."

The German held up his own glass of mulled wine and gave a nod.

"_Fröhliche Weihnachten_." Ludwig got to his feet and headed over to the tree where, to Arthur's surprise, he leant down and extracted a small present from beneath the branches. He held the gift out to the Englishman and said, civilly, "I hope next year serves you better than this one has."

With a mixture of surprise and amusement, Arthur fished his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small present of his own, passing it to Ludwig as he took the man's.

"Same to you." 

_**December 25**__**th**__**, NYC**_

Upon waking up to the tinny beep of his alarm clock, Alfred nearly gave himself a paper cut. He squinted to bring the sheet of paper beside him on his pillow into focus. After mastering his surroundings and recalling the date, he took up the paper and read the message in weak light filtering through his blinds.

"_Alfred,_

_Bonjour. I hope you slept well. Please be so kind as to meet me in the living room as soon as you wake. I have a little gift for you._

_Francis_

Alfred let his head sink back onto the pillow again and held the sheet above his head, squinting at the message and bringing the words in and out of focus. A moment later he crumpled the note into a ball and got to his feet, padding out of the room in his vest and jogging bottoms.

Sure enough, he found the lights already on in the living room and the blinds open, showing the misty, wintery sunlight that reflected off the grey waters of the river. Stood looking at out the scene in silence, the Frenchman's silhouette was lit up and sent into sharp relief. Alfred uncertainly approached the man's side, it seeming to take him joining the man's side for Francis to notice his presence. When he did so, the man gave Alfred a contemplative smile.

"Merry Christmas."

"Mm," the Frenchman said, as though in agreement, "You know, I do not find Christmas so exciting myself, I think may have grown up too much for it. I prefer New Year's Eve," Francis mulled over his own words before adding, "Still, I think that this is a good time for staying with family and loved ones."

Alfred let himself avoid the other man's eye, giving his Christmas tree a look instead and noticing for the first time that his Superman decoration had become entangled in some tinsel, "I guess. It's a good time to think about what's really important in life."

"_Exactement," _The American realised suddenly that it wasn't his imagination that the other man was standing closer than before. Still, he chose to ignore how their shoulders were almost brushing, "Ah, Alfred?"

"Yeah?" the man bristled at the breathy way in which the man said his name, "You still haven't told me why you wanted me to come in here so early," he squinted, cursing himself for forgetting his glasses, as he tried to identify any new gifts placed under the tree that the Frenchman may have possibly intended for him.

"Let me show you why I wanted you to come here, instead," the other man smiled. As though in slow motion, Alfred felt fingers wind their way through his hair, hands cupping his head and a pair of lips pressing firmly against his own which attempted to tease his own mouth open. More out of shock than pleasure, the American opened his mouth and felt a tongue skilfully stroke against his own. When time felt like it had returned to its usual pace, Alfred's hands found purchase on the soft wool of the other man's jumper and gripped it momentarily before he shoved with all of his considerable might.

Francis managed to catch himself before he fell over, managing to maintain a pleasant smile as he straightened himself and his rumpled clothes. The American's ire grew at the sight of the Frenchman slowly and suggestively licking his lips.

Before Alfred could get enough breath with which to shout, Francis, rather curiously, pointed upward with one long finger. Feeling that it left him somewhat defenceless, Alfred shot a quick glance to where Francis was gesturing and spotted a sprig of mistletoe that he knew had not been there the night before. The rather harmless looking decoration made something in Alfred's mind overflow, his emotions finally sweeping over him.

"Okay!" he yelled, hearing as he spoke creeping footsteps behind him, "Okay! I don't know what the _hell_ you think you're playing at but that's _it_!" The Frenchmen gave him an innocent and startled look, "No more groping, no more dirty jokes, no more hiding behind the shower curtain-"

"I assure you, I wasn't-"

"My shower doesn't _cough_, Francis."

"Guys," Matthew said, weakly. The two other men ignored him, Francis giving the Canadian a calm little blasé wave.

Alfred went to grab a chair, climbed up and tugged the mistletoe down from the ceiling viciously, before he carried on as doggedly as before, "Look. You are, apparently, my goddamn guest so start acting like one instead of like an out of work porn star!"

"I am only having a little fun, Alfred," Francis said, placidly; his tone became more frank and serious as he added, "I meant no harm. I thought that you might enjoy a little, how you say, simple pleasure and frivolity after the last few months."

"No," The American went and sat beside his brother on the sofa as though the man might act as a buffer, "Look, maybe I would like to have a little "fun and frivolity" or whatever it is you said, but not like _that_. Did you never stop to think that maybe I just want to be around someone - I don't know - someone who doesn't act like a total pervert all the time?" He took in a deep, ragged breath, "You know, like someone who doesn't keep begging me to show him where the nearest clubs are, or who doesn't take an hour to get ready to go out. I know I'm awesome and I like action and all but sometimes I just want to be left alone, okay? Maybe I just want to spend some time in peace and quiet, with some nice, _bland_ guy. Just, I don't know, spending some time with someone who wants to read or something." To the best of his abilities Alfred tried to mask the horrified look that came over him as he heard his own words and their import registered in his brain. Francis, too, seemed to be keeping himself from looking too interested in the Alfred's words and reaction, opting instead to give a sad, accepting sigh.

"I understand. I apologise. Please, let's not let this little confusion spoil our day."

Alfred gave him a dull, pardoning nod, turning then to his brother and blatantly ignoring Francis as he engaged the man in a loud, overly animated conversation. Once the American was suitably distracted, Francis took out his phone and sent off a text.

"_Ludwig. I think that little favour you requested of me is working. I shall see you at the Conference. A Joyeux Noël to you and darling Arthur, Francis xx (You boys all owe me a very, very big favour yourselves after all of the abuse I have had to endure. Alfred force fed me "French fries")."_

_**December 28**__**th**__**, NYC**_

"Looks like you've got a late Christmas gift, Alfred," Matthew said with a puzzled frown, returning from the mail-box on the ground floor. He took the parcel wrapped in a holly patterned wrapping paper from the pile of mail, dropping the rest of the letters onto the kitchen table. The Canadian squinted at the package a little harder, "I think the franking says Berlin."

"Ludwig?" Alfred took the parcel from his brother and gave it enough of a squeeze to identify it as a book. He turned the object in his hands uncertainly, "Do you think he's trying to get me on his side? Or, damn, maybe he thinks I thinks I'm on Feliciano's side and he's trying to kill me," the American held the gift slightly further from his body.

"You won't know which it is until you open it," Matthew said, dropping some flyers and catalogues he had found in the mail into the bin. Both men looked rather vacantly at the leather bound album that Alfred uncovered. The American searched the torn wrapping paper for a note, letter or a card of some kind to find no note or explanation of any kind.

"This is weird-" The American's words died on his lips, however, when he opened up the album and looked at the photos inside and, more specifically, the handwriting beside each photograph. He didn't give an explanation to his brother as he left the room to go into his bedroom and sit on his bed in silence, giving the album his full attention. His fingers clutched the soft leather of the cover as he turned to the front of the album and proceeded to read.

The photos were a mixture of the ones he had thrown into the box he had sent Arthur and ones he hadn't seen before, he realised, and were ordered by what appeared to be date. The first print was an unnaturally stiff, posed photograph in sepia of the pair staring out at a camera. Both men were in suits, Arthur's head held stiffly above a starched collar, Alfred wearing a derby he remembered had pinched just above the ears.

"_I hate this picture,"_ Arthur's note read, _"We look so awkward and miserable. That suit of mine itched like mad. After the war photographs things look up, I promise."_

Alfred found himself agreeing with the comment. The war photos he skipped over with a frown, unable to keep himself from noticing how either himself or Arthur were sporting a bloodied lip or ugly bruises in almost every black and white shot. They were, he realised as he took in the sight of their strained or pained expressions, photographs taking solely for the records, for history's sake.

After a few leaves, the photographs turned to colour. The photographs from the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s all made him wince, partly on account of the clothes they were both wearing (Arthur's comments too made mention to their more questionable outfits, such as the Englishman's 1970's velvet suit and Alfred's 1980's suit with rolled sleeves). Partly though, he winced because of how few of the photographs seemed to have been taken outside of Conferences or Meetings. In almost every shot it was possible to feel the tension and aggression between the pair, stood shoulder to shoulder and looking at each camera as though squaring up to it or at waiting for a jail mug shot to be taken.

"_One of the reasons I always looked so fed up in these pictures," _Arthur's comment ran next to a particularly bad shot from the 1990s which Alfred vaguely recalled had been taken by Toris, _"Is because I would always promise myself not to pick a fight with you and then go ahead and ignore my own good advice. I think it's also because your grin is one of my favourite things in this life, up there with a good novel, a well brewed cup of tea and an empty field on a summer's day with no "trespassers will be shot" sign in sight. Whenever I looked across at you when we were having one of these photos taken and saw that you weren't smiling it just seemed to make a smile on my own part rather pointless."_

There was an almost palpable change in the atmosphere of the scenes in the most recent photographs. The majority were casual, taken outside of meetings. One photo he hadn't seen before made him cringe a smile, featuring as it did a sunburnt Arthur in a polo shirt, attempting to hide his face behind a half empty pint glass, whilst Alfred saw that he himself was flipping the camera the bird, mouth open in an amused shout. After a moment's thought, he remembered where the shot had been taken and by whom: in Paris, by Francis, where they had gone to some art show the man had insisted on dragging them to after a meeting.

Another photograph on the same page was just as unfamiliar, featuring himself alone, squinting in the wintery sunlight of his garden back in D.C.

" _I came so close to kissing you that day,"_ Arthur's inscription ran next to the shot, _"I was terrified because I would have had no excuse at all for doing so. I remember you asked me if I felt ill, so I must have looked every bit as bad as I felt."_

On the final page, Alfred gave a frown of surprise. There were two pictures there, both angled and little blurry as though taken with a phone as opposed to a camera. The first was one of his own, a photograph of Arthur sleeping, an arm flung out over the edge of Alfred's bed, eyebrows raised somewhere in his fringe, mouth parted in a delicate sigh of breath.

"_I never knew that you took this. It's curious, really."_

Alfred looked down at the final unfamiliar photograph. He saw that it was of himself, laid alone on a bed that wasn't his own nor Arthur's. In the shot he was curled up on himself, his face wearing a look of dream-inspired puzzlement, one hand tucked up and curled under his pillow. It took Alfred spotting a large toy tiger in one corner of the shot for him to realise the photograph had been taken on their trip to Blackpool the year before.

"_I say the above picture is curious because, as you can see, I did precisely the same not so long afterward. I am so glad I had the heart and the stomach to kiss you that week without the damn excuse of being drunk. I am not exaggerating when I say it was one of the best decisions I've ever made. I will never regret kissing you that day."_

On the back cover, Alfred spotted a few final scrawled words.

"_You have all of my love,_

_Arthur"_

He sat with the album balanced on his lap, eyes closed for an indeterminate time. The weight of the album felt oddly reassuring and so it was with an effort that he got to his feet and placed the book on the small bookcase in his living room. He carefully straightened it afterwards, his hand dragging down the soft leather of the spine before he pushed the album and its photographs from his mind.

**A/N**

A fair amount of history and research fail in this chapter I fear, but somewhat unavoidable.

**Italian Christmas – **Feliciano helps Lovino prepare fish, a common dish on Christmas Eve for Catholics in Rome (I see both boys and Antonio as "Catholic", as it were). Both Italy and Spain celebrate the Epiphany on the 6th of January, but Christmas in more recent times has also been celebrated, which is why Lovino is still somewhat dubious about the idea of a Christmas tree.

**English Christmas – **Much like American Christmasses, it's generally all about food, family and spending extortionate amounts of money on rubbish "across the pond" at Christmas-time. Crackers are a big part of an English Christmas: they look a little like giant wrapped sweets/candies. They typically contain a tacky plastic toy, a paper hat and, as Ludwig notes, a "joke". They contain something which makes a loud "snapping" sound when the cracker is pulled. The idea is that whoever gets the end containing the toy keeps it. As Arthur notes, England does have a few "Germany inspired" Christmas markets and whilst some have German stallholders, I imagine some of the wares are fairly poor quality. Also, I think Francis would be quick to point out that mistletoe has its roots in English druid customs.

**German Christmas – **Mentioned in the fic are Germany's famous Christmas markets (admittedly, I have taken some liberties in including stalls that include the gifts Arthur and Ludwig just so happen to want to buy). Also mentioned are several German festive foods such as mulled wine, candied almonds and gingerbread. Arthur also compliments Ludwig on his tree, Germany being the "birthplace" of the Christmas tree.

**French Christmas –** It would appear Christmas is more of a children's holiday in France, whilst la Saint-Sylvestre/New Year's Eve is more an adults holiday.

"**Toy tiger"** – a reference to my other UK/US fic "Al and Artie do Blackpool". Alfred liberates a "giant toy tiger" from a funfair-style game stall, much to Arthur's chagrin.


	13. Chapter 13

_**APH - Dating Advice for Germans and Americans Chaper 6 of 8**_

**Dating Advice for Germans and Americans Chapter 6**

_**January 8**__**th**__**,  
From Kirkland, A. to Ludwig**_

Ludwig,

Are you ready for the conference?

Arthur

_**January 9**__**th**__**,  
From Ludwig to Kirkland, A. **_

Arthur,

No.

Ludwig

_**January 9**__**th**__**,  
From Kirkland A. to Ludwig**_

Ah, good, I thought it was just me. I'll see you tomorrow mate,

Arthur

_**January 10**__**th**__**, Derbyshire  
08.42am**_

Arthur studied himself in the unfamiliar and ornate mirror in what would be his and Ludwig's bedroom for the next two nights. Just having finished shaving, he closed his eyes for a second and allowed himself to focus on the fresh feeling of his skin and the sting of his after-shave.

The moment was, Arthur knew, one of the last peaceful times he'd experienced over the coming days and he felt how pleasant the heavy silence of the old house was more acutely as a result. With a grumble of a sigh he opened his eyes and studied his watch, the time approaching the dreaded hour of nine o'clock. The invites had stated that nations should arrive between nine o'clock and eleven o'clock in order to give plenty of time for travel from nearby hotels or, indeed, from airports if they had not opted to fly over earlier in the week.

Shirt on and tie knotted, Arthur took a final preparatory walk along the areas of the house being used for the Conference. The final result of his bartering and the limits of his budget had meant that basic beds had been placed in 15 rooms, working out at two or three people sharing each room. These rooms ran along a number of corridors on two floors but were all fairly close together to "promote interaction". The rooms he had wrangled were a couple of large, spacious living rooms from which the particularly irreplaceable furniture and artwork had been removed (not that he wasn't trusted, Arthur thought bitterly). Mostly importantly, a particularly ornate room with brilliant chandeliers, intricately painted ceilings and wood panelling that Arthur assumed had once been a dining room was to be used as the Conference room. As he passed though the "Conference room" the Englishman gave the well polished, well cared for chairs with their velvet cushions an apologetic pat in readiness of their potential demise at the hands of irate conference attendees.

In the Weekend's make-shift dining room and kitchen he spotted signs of the catering being in place and ready for the days ahead, napkins sat folded by each place setting alongside perfectly straightened chopsticks and cutlery.

Arthur donned his Chesterfield coat and the first scarf he came to on the coat rack and stepped outside. He rubbed his hands together, walking up and down the car park as he waited for the inevitable sound of cars crunching their way up the gravel.

Sure enough, in spite of a quick and helpless prayer to the universe as a whole, the guests began to arrive within the hour and Arthur did his best to be jovial and welcoming. The effort came easier with some such as the ever-pleasant Timo, than with others, such as Francis and the totally unfathomable Russian.

What Arthur found surprising as he made brief small talk with each guest was how no-one seemed to fix him with a particularly disgusted look, rather looking at him with their usual level of like, acceptance or dislike. It was as he was mulling over the question as to whether Alfred or Feliciano had told the rest of the world about his own "exploits", real or imagined, that a hire car drew up into the car park and the American himself stepped out, wrapped up in his old bomber jacket and a scarf Arthur felt sure he had leant the man.

The Englishman's spiel fell from his lips with a little less sincerity and rather more awkwardness when he held out his gloved hand for Alfred to shake. The American took it, giving it a grasp that contained none of its usual vigour and strength.

"Welcome to the England. I hope you enjoy your stay. The introductory talk will-"

"Arthur, cut the bullshit," Alfred said, letting go of his hand and studying him through slightly fogged glasses, "I know the drill, I know this place and I know you," the final words sounded particularly ominous to the Englishman but he still gave a nod.

"I suppose so. Please," he tried to maintain a professional tone, "Enjoy yourself. And..." he added, his tone beginning to falter, "Alfred, if we get the chance, we really need to talk."

In a flash, the American shook his head hard, "Quit it, okay? I'm here for the Conference. That's all. I'll see you around."

The dull sting of the expected failure to engage the man in conversation played upon Arthur's mind enough that he was caught off his guard when he saw a car that had been parked down at the bottom of the road for several minutes jerk back into life with a roar, startling a nearby sheep and tearing down the remaining stretch of gravel to come to a halt in the car park at an angle beside Alfred's car. A moment later the two Italians and Antonio stepped out and Arthur felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He swallowed hard to keep a sickly feeling at bay and fixed a weak smile to his face. He dealt with Antonio and, remarkably, with Lovino with relative ease, the older brother giving Arthur a calculating and pensive look as opposed to the enraged expression the Englishman had expecting, as though the elder Italian was instead trying to verify the truth of some unspoken claim.

Not helped by the cold of the day, Arthur found it an effort to keep the hand he offered Feliciano still. Unnervingly, the Italian considered him silently for a moment before taking it and shaking it, firmly.

"Welcome to the England. I hope you enjoy your stay. The introductory talk will began at approximately 11.15am in the first living room area. Just follow the paper signs with the green arrows to find it." Arthur felt his smile grow yet more pained and fixed, "Do you have any questions?"

"Yes. I have many questions," Feliciano agreed, "And I'll want answers to them all before I leave Arthur, okay?"

"Right."

"You did get my email, didn't you?" Feliciano asked, studying Arthur as though he were an especially ugly yet compelling painting.

"Yes. I did and-"

Lovino reappeared at the doorway of the house, stomping his feet, face red from the cold as he looked back outside in search of his brother.

"Feliciano. Get inside."

"But we're talking."

"Remember what I said in Rome? Get inside. Now."

Grudgingly, it seemed to Arthur, the younger Italian complied, his look lingering momentarily on Arthur in a way that made the man lose all his optimism.

_**11.18am**_

"Everyone? Can I have your attention, please?"

A bustle of talk continued, to Arthur's chagrin. Scanning the seats before him, he saw the Nordics talking among themselves, Berwald looking unnervingly irritated by something or other the Dane was saying with a wide, jovial grin. Likewise, Francis, Antonio and Gilbert had, unfortunately, managed to find each other and were sat sniggering or, in Gilbert's case, giving full-bellied laughs at whatever they were discussing. Yet worse, Arthur realised, was the fact that the only people giving him their full attention were Ludwig who, Arthur reflected, was almost unable of being intentionally impolite at Conferences, and Feliciano, who was staring hard at him, his mouth a thin line. The Englishman found himself almost unable to truly look in the American's direction, but with the quick glances he did manage he noticed that Alfred also seemed incapable of anything more than fleeting, uncomfortable frowns toward the front of the room.

"Everyone? Can I start the weekend?"

An embarrassed yelp rang out from Kiku's direction that drowned out his comment rather, Herakles looking suspiciously innocent and nonchalant at the man's side all the while. The Englishman felt his shoulders tense up under his suit.

"OI! CAN YOU LOT BLOODY SHUT UP FOR FIVE MINUTES? CHRIST ALMIGHTY."

An uneasy silence rang out in the aftermath, only punctuated by a few snorts from Peter, which Timo attempted to stifle by elbowing the boy in the side.

"Thank you," Arthur said, in a wheezy and lacklustre tone, "I'd like to begin by thanking everyone for coming here today," to Arthur's ear the words felt as though they fell flatter that they had when read upon the page, "I think simply attending this weekend is a positive step forward in the cause of improving our diplomacy skills and developing our relationships. Granted, this will be a difficult few days," he made sure to avoid Feliciano's eye in particular at the words, "But I think it will also be incredibly helpful. We cannot hope to solve all of our grievances with each other, but any little improvements we can affect are sure to be of benefit to us and our bosses, which naturally means that, more importantly, our people will benefit-Francis, I swear if you don't stop sniggering like that, I will kill you, you damn frog."

Looking oddly satisfied by the reaction, the Frenchman grew quiet, smiling all the while and leaving a harrowed Arthur to glance about the room and say, dully, "Any questions? No. Smashing," he gestured beneath the chairs of the nations in the front row, "If you look inside those bags you'll find three little gifts for you to keep. There's a coin fresh from the mint to commemorate this year's World Conference Weekend, but more importantly you'll find a mobile phone. These are all programmed with the numbers of all of the other phones. Now, what I would encourage everyone to do is send off a few texts to several numbers at random and see if you can't all strike up a non-aggressive, diplomatic conversation with someone else without history or prejudice guiding your conversation. The identity of each country will be revealed on the final day. Likewise, there's also a," Arthur looked quite despairing as he uttered the word, "tamigootchi, thanks to the efforts of Yao. Again, just something to keep you amused, but they are capable of syncing with another device so they might be a fun way to get some friendly interactions going."

When everyone had done toying with both devices, bar Ivan who seemed particularly taken with the tamigootchi, Arthur continued, "I'm sure you've already seen this weekend's schedule but I'll just run through it once again before letting you return to your rooms, stay in here and talk or wander about the grounds if you wish. Today we'll have a few team building activities an hour from now in the room signposted in the corridors by the red arrows, followed by the actual conference. That'll take us up to dinner time, which will be formal."

He pointedly ignored the lukewarm reaction to his words received, "Tomorrow, we will take part in two outdoor activities and then the rest of the day will be free time with the living rooms open for you to take advantage of. Finally, the next and final morning we will have more team building activities before leaving. So, all that there's left to say is that I hope you enjoy yourselves and please feel free to consult me if you have any problems. I have two numbers in your phone's contact lists. One I'll keep a secret, but the other is listed as "Help". If you can't find me about, give me a text or a call and I'll be in touch."

Arthur watched, already feeling mentally drained, as half the group peeled away out of the room, among them Ludwig, Feliciano and Alfred, the other half staying to play with their phones or the toys, many by themselves, a few together. The Englishman winced at a yell of "Antonio, stop trying to get yours to mate with mine, idiot!" from Lovino and a giggle from the Spaniard; he noted too that Kiku appeared to be questioning Yao on the toy itself.

"No," the man was explaining, looking a little affronted, "Tamigootchi. They're quite different, aru."

"I don't know why you're arguing when I invented both anyway," another voice chimed in and Arthur was left wondering if joining forces to disagree with a third person could really be classed as being "diplomatic".

Meanwhile, across the other side of the room still bundled into a number of sweaters in spite of the high temperature of the radiators dotted about the room, Ivan looked down at the tiny toy held in his sizeable hand with a rather heartbroken look.

"It's not moving anymore," the man sidled over to Yao's side to show him the device. The Chinaman gave a sigh.

"It's dead, Ivan."

"But," the Russian frowned even harder at the little screen and the inanimate blob there, "All I did was hug it. I kept selecting the hug option."

"Did you let it "go outside"?"

That smile that made the hair on Arthur's neck stand on end appeared on the Russian's face, "No. There was no need for it to leave the house."

"They need exercise and food, aru."

Ivan's expression turned to one of disappointment, "I would have thought that love would have been sufficient, eh Toris?"

Arthur took the exchange as his queue to leave and returned, with relief, to his bedroom.

_**6.59pm**_

Arthur, along no doubt with countless other nations in the conference room, was amazed when the clock ticked around to seven o'clock. There had been far too many times in the course of the meeting, Arthur reflected as he willed the hand up to the hour mark, when it had felt as though the clock had stopped specifically to aid the group in berating and belittling each other.

"Right," Arthur said, looking at the men and women sat around the table, "That is officially the end of the meeting; however, if anyone has any further pressing matters, you can of course still raise those issues."

With a little déjà vu, Arthur joined the others in turning to study the one lone hand that was raised. He looked at the Italian, hearing a voice that sounded like Roderich's mutter something about pasta being in no way related to the pitfalls of alliances, favouritism and long-standing national rivalries, the main topics of the meeting.

"Yes, Feliciano?" Arthur said softly, picking up his pen and adding the man's name to the meeting minutes.

The Italian spoke with remarkable calm, lowering his arm and addressing Arthur specifically, "I know we try to avoid talking about romantic relationships at meetings," an awkward silence fell across the room at the words, "But I was wondering, can't they be just as harmful to our "developing relationships" with each other?"

Arthur's hand faltered, leaving his writing to tail off with a shaky wiggle and a splotch of ink.

"As you stated, Feliciano," he responded, continuing as best he could with his note-taking, "It is really not in our ambit to discuss such matters, although I imagine everyone present understands the point you are making." A murmur of agreement and conversation rose up from the room.

"No. No, I don't mean just any relationship," Feliciano said dismissively, "Relationships like Timo and Berwald's marriage, for example, that doesn't hurt anyone." The Swede gave a grunt of approval. Timo, meanwhile, looked a little weary.

"Does no one hear me when I say we are not married?"

"Then what sort of relationship _are_ you referring to?" Arthur said, overriding the Finn and scrutinizing Feliciano, "I wasn't aware there was a form of romantic relationship that we could feasibly discuss in the setting of a Conference."

"The sort that hurt other people?" Feliciano said, looking about at the others, "Ones that make the people within them unhappy and make those around them unhappy."

"I still think we are going beyond the bounds of decent discussion."

The Italian seemed to catch Alfred's eye from across the Conference table and faltered slightly, "I just think that those relationships are as bad as long standing rivalries."

"Yes," Arthur agreed, in little more than a whisper, "But whilst love and war might seem like one and the same, they _are_ different in that we all suffer when our people opt to wage war, when we grow embittered with each other, but when we love... it is our own private business," he glanced about for any sign of agreement and support from the others, "Our people are none the wiser when we love, it is only ourselves who are hurt by our loves," he caught Alfred's eye briefly, "And it is a pain that we have to bear alone. It shows that we aren't indestructible, that perhaps we have more in common with our citizens than we might have first thought," he looked back to Feliciano at last, a note of finality in his voice, "I am sorry if you believe that there are romantic relationships between any of us which would cause upset and distress to others, but no amount of public debate will resolve those particular matters."

"I see," Feliciano nodded, "I am sorry for interrupting then."

"Not at all," Arthur ruled a line on his pad of paper, "Then I think that's the end of the meeting. Thank you to everyone for your cooperation today."

As was usual for the end of a Conference, the room was quick to empty, the nations bustling toward the door. The group were careful to keep their thoughts and comments to a mutter until they were outside, where their voices rose, sounding intrigued and conflicted this year, Arthur noted.

The Englishman's breath caught for a moment as he saw Alfred lingering by the door; before he could find any words, however, the man's reason soon became clear. The American was waiting for Feliciano, left behind in the brawl for the exit; he joined the man's side and the two also excited, talking quickly and quietly.

The room empty, Arthur sat and rubbed at his forehead wearily, giving a little jump as a voice spoke up.

"Why didn't you tell him the truth?" Ludwig asked, moving to take the seat beside Arthur instead. His gaze fell upon the blotch of ink on Arthur's pad of paper momentarily before studying the man himself.

"Because it would have left the Conference in tatters," Arthur said, eyes scanning his pages of notes, brow creased.

"It hasn't been a marked success otherwise," Ludwig noted, "Herakles poured a pitcher of water over Sadiq, someone let Matthew walk into a wall in that "minefield" trust building exercising with the blindfolds and Natasha reduced Ivan to tears."

"Alright!" Ludwig's eyes widened at the way the Englishman slammed his hand down on top of his notepad, hand forming a fist, "_Alright_. Leave it be would you? Let me rephrase: I thought it would be marginally better if I didn't let your ex tell the world that I'm a bastard."

"Arthur?" Ludwig said after a time in the ringing silence that fell, "Is there a problem?"

The Englishman stood up from the table with a sigh. He shot the other man a consoling sort of look, "Yes. There are countless problems and you know enough of them already. I don't want this Conference to be a total disaster. I don't want to be a laughing stock. That's all you need to know about that particular kettle of fish, alright? Since Francis has, apparently, made some head way with Alfred I think we need to step up our efforts to fix some of your problems."

"Very well. Feliciano has managed to avoid me in all of the trust exercises that took place this morning and," the German added, unable to hide his disconcertion, "I cannot see how tomorrow morning's activity will help matters."

"I've been having a think about what we might do," Arthur said, "I'll let you know this evening. First, I need to act like a host for a while."

_**8.46pm**_

The formal dinner finished, Arthur found the time to consult his new phones and found their inboxes for the most part blessedly empty. There were just a handful of texts on his anonymous number, two of which were readily identifiable. One informed him that the sender was awesome and asked him whether he would like to know how large said sender's penis was (Arthur politely declined by deleting the message); another asked him – for confidential research purposes only, the text noted - if he was, in fact, a he and if that was the case, did he so happen to have a boyfriend? How was his relationship if that was the case? What sort of stuff were they into? Did they have any kinks? Again, Arthur opted to delete the message.

On the "Helpline" phone he found a more disturbing message.

"_The only reason I didn't tell everyone is because Alfred was there," _it ran, _"I don't see why he should get hurt again. You've hurt enough people. You say that love is a private matter and a burden we all have to bear alone. Then why am I being hurt by you? Why should I be punished for who you love? The worst thing, Arthur, is how Ludwig looks with you. He doesn't smile anymore. If you really want him, at least make him as happy as you can. F."_

Another curious text on his anonymous number managed to distract Arthur suitably from Feliciano's text.

"I got your number from Kiku. I'm really sorry for today. And for some other stuff too," it said. Arthur tried to recall what Alfred's number was from his memory of the master list of numbers. The last three digits of the sender's number rang a bell to the Englishman.

"Look, I'm really sorry – for everything," Arthur texted back, fingers fumbling over the keys in his haste, "I am. I don't want to try and explain what I meant when I said those things to you through a text, though."

"Sure," came the reply, "We need to talk all this stuff over face to face. I'm just amazed, y'know? You're really sorry?"

"Of course I am. I never wanted to hurt you. I just let my mouth run away with me sometime. I did mean some of what I said but I think you misunderstood. If I you'd let me explain to you, I hope we can bury the hatchet."

"Ah, kid. I knew you'd come 'round eventually," the final text read, and Arthur gave the endearment a somewhat confused look, "I'll meet you at the top of that flight of stairs by the first floor of bedrooms in ten minutes."

Arthur filled the intervening time by straightening his tie over and again until it was even wonkier than before, then paused by his mirror to rub at his eyebrows in an attempt to get them to appear smoother and tapered.

He made his way to the appointed spot a few minutes before time and stood, hands in his pockets, looking at the large clock that stood against one wall a way along the corridor. A few moments later footsteps rang out down the hall and, to his disappointment, Sadiq rounded the corner, coming to stand nearby. The man had already changed out of his suit and was again wearing a top with the hood pulled up in such a way that it cast the top half of his face into shadow.

"Hey ya, Arthur."

"Evening."

Another minute ticked by and Arthur turned to the Turk, if only to take his mind off his mounting fear that the whole exchange had been a trick.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Even with the top half of his face in shadow, it was possible to read Sadiq's disbelief in the twist of his mouth. Still, Arthur was pleased to see that the man's eventual answer was fairly diplomatic, "The beer ya left in each room was good. Was it Ludwig's?"

"Yes."

"Yeah. Well, it was good," Sadiq jammed his hands a little further into the pockets of his top, "Some of these rooms are damn cold though."

"Drink more beer; that'll solve that problem," Arthur almost gave a flinch as the clock ticked around to another full minute past nine o'clock, "Why are you standing about in the corridors anyway? You lost?"

"Nah."

"Then why hang about? It's far draughtier in the corridors than in the rooms, you know."

"I'm waiting-" Sadiq ended his sentence with a groan and then, to Arthur's utter confusion, gave him a scowl, "Ah, damn it!"

Arthur was quick to open his mouth with a retort but two things kept him from doing so. The first were his duties as a host, which his brain reluctantly reminded him of; the second thing that stopped him in his tracks was his own realisation.

"Oh for crying out loud - I was texting you, wasn't I?"

"Yeah," Sadiq muttered a few curses under his breath, "Ya must have been. Arthur, this phone idea was really stupid."

"I'm beginning to see that," the Englishman opted to skirt the question as to who Sadiq had been expecting to turn up in favour of asking, "I don't suppose you know what number-"

"Alfred's on?" Sadiq finished for him, "Yeah, I do. It's the one endin' "847". Or at least someone sent me a text earlier asking who I thought would win in a fight, Superman or Batman."

"That's him."

"That's what I thought," the man reluctantly pulled one of his hands from his jacket pocket to point down one corridor, "I can do you one better though: go down there, 'round the corner, third down on the left. He's in there with Feliks, tryin' to avoid you."

Arthur gave Sadiq a slap on the arm, "You're a good bloke. I owe you one."

"Yeah?" The Turk called after the man as he headed off at a pace down the corridor, "Then why not repay me by turning up the heating!"

It was only a matter of seconds before Arthur was knocking on the door.

_**9.08pm**_

Even without recognising the knock himself, Feliciano knew it had to belong to Arthur from Alfred's reaction, the American letting his head fall back against the bed he was sat leant again, eyes closed in consternation. Feliks was the one to rise to his feet, looking equally irritated.

"I'll tell him to go," he assured the pair and had the door opened before Arthur could begin another round of knocking. The Pole's body blocked all view of the corridor and so both other men were forced to simply listen intently to the conversation that took place.

"Hello Feliks. Sorry to interrupt you at this time of night," Arthur said, his previously formal tone of earlier now strained, "I was wondering if Alfred was in there. I heard he might be."

"You're not coming in," Feliks said in turn, brusquely, "I heard about what you said to Alfred."

There was an audible sigh from Arthur and when he spoke again his tone was far more like it might have been if he had been a guest at someone else's conference.

"Look, I know you're harbouring a fugitive, as it were. Might I remind you, you _are_ in my house, on _my_ soil, Feliks."

Feliciano saw how the Pole stood with his feet a little farther apart, clearly squaring up to the Englishman, "Okay, so, like first off: back up. Secondly: what is, you know, your deal?"

There was a silence on the other side of the door which Feliciano took to mean that Arthur was perplexed.

"I'm gonna be majorly honest with you Arthur, okay? So, yeah, you have just been a huge bitch to Alfred, and it is so not hot, not at all. If I was Alfred, like, I would be ignoring you right now as well and doing some other shit or something."

"...Come again?"

"He doesn't want to see you, like, ever again. So, deal."

"I see," Alfred leant closer to Feliciano in order to avoid Arthur's line of sight as the man attempted to push the door further open, an effort heeded by Feliks, "But can't I just say one bloody thing to him?"

"Arthur, you are totally coming close to having Warsaw as your new capital-"

"Alfred?" For the first time in the exchange, Feliciano took his eyes off the doorway and looked to his side, at Alfred. He saw how the American was wincing at how curiously ragged and desperate Arthur sounded as he near-shouted for the American, "Alfred? I don't even know if you are in there, but, look, I'm sorry. I wanted to talk to you earlier, but you never drew my name in those damn team building activities. I need to talk to you. I am sorry. I... Oh sod it," The Italian came closer to giving Alfred a hug when he saw how the man was shaking his head ever so slightly at the sound of the Englishman giving up, finally ceasing to scrabble with Feliks for the door. Arthur gave one final murmur.

"Sorry to bother you Feliks. I hope you're enjoying your stay; I'll see you in the morning."

"'Kay. Later."

Feliks shot the two an awkward look as he returned to their side but the Italian scarcely noticed. His mind was turning over what had just happened, trying to come to a sensible, satisfying answer for what he had just heard. Arthur wanted Alfred; there was no way it could be otherwise, Feliciano knew, the man's tone had betrayed his feelings so completely. With a little shiver of nervous emotion, Feliciano found himself wondering whether it was possible his brother was right.

_**9.45pm**_

Arthur let himself back into his own room to find Ludwig already inside and sat on his bunk watching some television on an old set that had been placed in one corner of the room.

"Evening. Have there been any problems with the others?" the German asked politely, "You have been gone for a considerable time."

"No. Everything's fine," Arthur said dismissively. He opted to keep on talking to prevent the man asking what the nature of his absence had actually been, still feeling too drained from his encounter with Feliks to admit to Ludwig that he had failed once again to engage the American in conversation. As a result Arthur found himself filled with dogged enthusiasm for another topic that would keep his mind off his own worries, specifically an idea that had occurred to him mid-way through the first course of their formal dinner.

"I have a cunning plan," he announced. Ludwig reached for the remote controller, muted the television and shot him a blank look.

"Hear me out," Arthur said, apropos of nothing, "Hear me out now. We need to remind Feliciano that he still has love for you, whether you are a bit of a two-timing dick or not-"

"I'm not _even_ a two timing dick."

"Yes. Quite. But that's how he sees it," Arthur said, joining Ludwig on his bunk, "So we obviously need to get him to give you another chance. I've been thinking you see: If he is suddenly made to recall his affection for you and he sees you acting quite contritely and nicely, he might be willing to hear you out and that's where and how you start to mend things."

The German looked at him tiredly and irritably, "Wouldn't it be better to simply admit that we are both beyond help?"

"No," Arthur addressed his comments to Ludwig's shoes, "I really do think this idea might be a winner," the man, Ludwig noticed, had taken out one of his phones and was hastily typing as he spoke.

"Oh? What is "this idea", exactly?"

"It's fairly straightforward," Arthur said, "You need to steal something important from him-" a glance shot upward at Ludwig's look of sheer ire made him stumble momentarily with his sentence, "Hear me out. Please. You need to steal-"

"I am _not_ stealing from Feliciano. Nein. It will not happen."

"Alright, then _someone_ has to steal something from Feliciano," Arthur charged on with the sentence before Ludwig could interject, "That reminds him of you, so he will remember his finer feelings for you and will miss both you and whatever we have stolen. Then perhaps you could help him recover "it", providing you with an opportunity to talk together whilst you also get the added advantage of seeming manly and heroic."

Ludwig's rage-filled expression faltered into a more thoughtful look, "...What kind of thing? What would we steal, I mean?"

"I'm not stealing it either, you know. I've already got him out for my blood because he thinks I'm bumming you-"

"I'm fairly sure he thinks _I'm _"bumming" you, but proceed."

"Yes, well," Arthur said dismissively, "He stills wears that old iron cross of yours, doesn't he? I spotted it at dinner."

"Yes," Ludwig agreed, "He rarely takes it off; only to shower or when he sleeps – I told him he might choke himself with it if he slept in it, he wriggles a lot."

"Right. So, whoever-it-may-be needs to take the necklace, hand it to you, and you can pretend to discover it somewhere and be the hero of the hour."

The German mediated on the matter, then shrugged, "If matters can get worse, I cannot imagine how. Who on earth would agree to steal from Feliciano, though?"

"Well, it needn't be out and out breaking and entering," Arthur noted, "There's always the option of just distracting Feliciano long enough to nab it."

"And what distractions do you think could work? Food? Pretty girls? Football?"

Arthur shook his head, "You said he takes it off to go to bed. So, logically-"

Ludwig went back to his irate look of before, spotting how Arthur had been wearing a wince ahead of his reaction, "You want someone to talk Feliciano into bed in order to steal that thing?"

"No," Arthur disagreed, "I want someone who might logically try to flirt with Feliciano to do so and take the thing. And if we do it, we really ought to do it tonight. So," before Ludwig could vocalise his rage once more, Arthur had crossed back to the bedroom door and pulled it open. With a hand on either side of the frame Gilbert stood smirking, no doubt an expression he had been wearing throughout his eavesdropping.

"Ta-dah," the East German said, Arthur giving a flourishing, hopeful gesture towards the man all the while. Ludwig, on the other hand, merely bowed his head, expression desolate.

"...Do it," Both other men looked momentarily stunned by his words, although the man's brother quickly recovered from his shock.

"This is an awesome moment in history," Gilbert said, with an unequalled smile of delight, "Okay. I'm off to grope your ex-boyfriend in the name of justice."

As the door swung closed once again, Ludwig was back to looking at Arthur as though he were the pigeon excrement that was still on Arthur's windowsill at home.

"Why did I ever ring you?"

"It's a question I've asked myself," the Englishman confessed.

_**10.05pm**_

The pair's stony silence as they waited for Gilbert to return was broken eventually by Ludwig.

"It shouldn't take this long."

"Patience is a virtue, Ludwig."

The man drank a little more of his beer and narrowed his eyes at Arthur, the drink having stripped away some of his previous reserve and decorum, "It isn't when your brother is in a bedroom with your lover with express permission to-" the man opted to angrily tip more beer into his mouth as opposed to finish the sentence. Lowering the bottle again, he spoke up once more.

"Do you remember how all this started?"

Arthur looked rather phased by the question, "Well, yes, naturally."

"I asked you for dating advice to improve my relationship. Now I'm asking you for dating advice to actually stop my relationship from ending altogether, forever."

"Well, mine is also buggered up beyond belief, so, at least we're in the same boat."

Ludwig finished his bottle of beer.

"Maybe my mistake was getting in the same boat as you to begin with."


	14. Chapter 14

**Dating Advice for Germans and Americans Chapter 7a of 8**

**_January 11th, Derbyshire,_**_**  
**_**_07.44am_**

After a night of poor, interrupted sleep, Ludwig awoke to find a neatly folded pile of clothes on the floor beside his bed. He studied the garments regretfully, having begun unconsciously to hope that simply wishing for the second day of the Conference to go better than was pre-ordained would be enough to keep him from his fate. The camouflage, gloves and helmet told him he had been an idiot for falling prey to such optimism.

The German also looked to his bedside table, where a second Iron Cross laid, its chain threatening to tangle with that of his own. The sight brought back, much to his displeasure, the recollection of his brother's vague account of how he had acquired it using methods so ingenious and seductive that the moment had been "so epic people would write ballads about it, if they weren't already" by the East German's own estimation. Ludwig placed both about his neck as the door opened, admitting Arthur already clad in his camouflage, gloves stored in his helmet which he swung at his side.

"Morning."

Ludwig fixed the man with a tired glare, earning him a haughty, crossed arm glare of expectation from the Englishman in return.

"Must we do this?" he asked.

"'Course we must."

"I am still confused as to how this activity is diplomatic, Arthur."

"It's character defining and promotes the building of relationships within teams," Arthur said, turning to face one wall at a shooing gesture from the German as the man climbed out of bed.

"It's paintball," Ludwig corrected him, taking off and folding his nightwear and donning the camouflage, "It is, simply, giving an angry Italian and an angry American guns."

"I booked it all at a time when the Italian was loveable and vivacious and the American was just a well-built nuisance."

"And I assume," Ludwig said once dressed, turning back to the other man, "That now that you have seen what will happen, you have no suggestions as to how we can protect ourselves?"

Arthur, looking especially sheepish, muttered something to his pair of scuffed steel-toe boots.

"I did not hear that."

"I said," The Englishman repeated in a grudgingly louder tone, "That I haven't even managed to rig the teams so we really are stuffed. I'm under a fair amount of stress," he said defensively, his hand seeming ready to grip his helmet a little tighter and little more defensively, "I can't be expected to be at the peak of my organisational powers," he gave Ludwig an expectant look, "Come on though, let's get to it. There'll be no leftover Chinese for breakfast at this rate."

Ludwig followed his host out of the room, noting the sound of people moving, sluggishly, behind several of the closed doors they passed, one cracking open enough for him to catch sight of a disgruntled Roderich, also dressed ready for the paintball game.

"I am tempted to take heed again of your previous advice, Arthur," Ludwig noted, earning himself a hopeful expression from the Englishman which he felt a grim joy from quashing, "That suggestion of creating a list of the issues I have with Feliciano. If you will recall, I told you that the list I sent you was not inclusive. That being said, I imagine the list of the problems I have with you would be considerably longer than the completed list for my lover."

Arthur sat, or rather slumped, down beside the German at the dining table, "I really wouldn't mind being on your team later."

"It would be a favourable outcome for you, yes."

**_09.03am_**

"This is seriously the only time this weekend that I haven't wanted to go back to bed."

"Ve?"

Alfred lifted up his helmet, "I said, this is the first time we've done something exciting. All that touchy-feely crap yesterday was a total waste of time."

The Italian mumbled an agreement, clearly only half listening. Alfred followed the man's gaze and spotted him studying another pair of men ahead of the general straggle of men and women making their way toward the woods where the paintball was to take place. They too were already wearing their helmets but were easily identifiable. The taller man had a purposeful stride and a firm gait, the other possessing a marching step. Whilst Alfred watched the pair the second man managed to catch the toe of his boot under a raised tree root and stumbled. The muffled cursing that the man spouted afterwards confirmed Alfred's suspicions.

"So," the American said, glancing away at length, although he sensed himself considering both men out of the corner of his eye all the while, "I'm thinking we shoot for me, you, Ivan, maybe Berwald – big guys, angry guys – in our team. I mean, Ivan is," Alfred gritted his teeth in an expression that suggested mere words were insufficient to express his emotions, "But if we want to really kick their asses, we need big, crazy guys with no reservations."

"Sure," Feliciano agreed again. Alfred noticed for a second time that morning the man rubbing absently at his collar bone, clothed as it was in their paintballing gear.

"Are you in pain?" Alfred asked, gesturing to the man, "You should say if you are, it's just a stupid game, no one will care if you skip."

"No, I'm fine," at last the man seemed to come to his senses and admitted to his friend, quietly, "I don't really want to play though. I don't like this kind of thing. I just want to go home."

"Yeah, me too," Alfred agreed, "But the way I see it, when life gives you lemons, shoot English guys in the ass with paintball pellets, right?"

As though inspired by his own declaration, The American let himself give the Englishman's backside a little look. The expression soon changed to a glower when he saw how often Arthur fell over either undergrowth or his own big boots, all of which offered Alfred a disturbingly appealing view of that particular part of the man's anatomy.

**_09.21am_**

Throughout the safety talk, which went a little way to calm Ludwig's nerves, it was clear that most of the others were tuning in and out. The crowd's eyes darted about as everyone sought out friends, enemies or lovers and began to organise themselves into their ideal teams in their own minds.

Naturally, when it came time for the teams to be randomly drawn, very few people were happy with their lot. Ludwig himself was disappointed because his name was followed moments later by that of "Arthur Kirkland". Likewise, the Englishman appeared equally awkward when "Alfred F. Jones"' name was also called for their team. Once again, in spite of an attempt to wish as hard as he could, much as he had done on that shooting star back in the war (an effort which had failed miserably), Feliciano was assigned to another of the three teams. The lists drawn up, each group formed a little huddle before the play started.

Through some unspoken arrangement, Arthur took it upon himself to act as the team leader, darting intense, steely eyed glances at everyone bar the American from under his eyebrows.

"My proposal is that we trounce the others. Anything to add?"

The Frenchman gave a sigh, readily identifiable by how often he tugged at the shapeless clothing which he had already declared "hideous".

"You are truly an idiot, eyebrows."

"Why is it that I always end up on your side?"

"Life is very cruel in that way."

"And what the hell does that mean, precisely?"

As both men came close to head butting each other their helmets were so closely inclined, Kiku cleared his throat politely.

"We may wish to focus upon strategies and "battle plans", not creating divisions within our own ranks."

Ludwig gave the man a thankful look, "I agree."

"Oh, wait!" Alfred spoke up suddenly, startling Raivis with the volume of his exclamation, "I've got it! We combine all our ammo and create a kind of giant-mega paintball gun so, say, if they hide behind trees or whatever, we just blow the trees away and get 'em anyway!"

Ludwig and Arthur exchanged a glance which Ludwig interpreted as Arthur seeking sympathy for being in love with such a person. Ludwig returned a wince.

"I think that may be beyond our means, Alfred," Toris said gently. The Lithuanian man was considering the other groups in turn, in which Gilbert could be seen gesticulating wildly, whilst Ivan was simply smiling and looking at each of his team mates with a combination of wry amusement and expectation.

"Yeah. Let's think simpler," the Dane said, "Simple stuff that takes out Berwald."

"Diplomacy," Ludwig muttered in Arthur's direction, "And developing relationships."

"Oh shut it, Kraut," Arthur snapped in return. He studied the rest of the group, "Any takers? Come on, we're nearly out of time."

"I've gotta few ideas," Sadiq nodded, goggles completely hiding the man's eyes from view, "Everybody come in a little closer and I'll run it by ya."

**_09.59am_**

Crouched behind a convenient natural barricade of logs and acting as protection for those members of his team attempting to take out other players, Arthur began to realise that the only advantage of Sadiq's battle plan was that it gave everyone a focus. It suffered a great deal, on the other hand, from the fact that the other teams appeared to be taking the approach of simply shooting wildly at anything that moved, including rustling leaves and their own players.

A more tangential benefit of a plan involving defence, attackers and scouts was also that it gave the Englishman a valid excuse for admiring the sight of Alfred looking intensely involved in a physical activity. That much had always been something that Arthur had found enjoyable, although the helmets rather spoiled the effect, he thought with a sigh that fogged up his goggles.

Sometime later, during which the Englishman had little or no opportunity to shoot at anyone or anything, Ludwig reappeared at his side, his arrival announced by a volley of paintballs which the man managed to outrun by a matter of inches.

"What's going on?" Arthur asked, when the German looked like he had his breath back.

"It's chaos," Ludwig said, a sheen of sweat visible on his forehead behind his goggles, "Herakles and Sadiq have taken each other out; Francis has been shot in... a sensitive area and no one knows who is responsible. Feliciano is quite far away, so I believe we are safe for now. Only two teams remain: ours and his. The others are all out."

"Damn. Who's on the other team again? Feliciano, Antonio – no offence to your man but I can't see how he's stayed alive this long."

"You're forgetting," Germany said, with a wearied and surprisingly wide-eyed stare, "The other person they drew."

Arthur considered, "Gilbert? I saw him go down in a blaze of paintballs from Roderich and Elizabeta, laughing like a lunatic."

"Ja," Ludwig sighed, joining Arthur in watching Alfred in the distance, still darting from tree to tree, "But I wasn't referring to my brother. The team comprised originally of Antonio, Feliciano, Gilbert, Peter-"

"I took him out," Arthur said, smugly.

"He's a child."

"It was still fantastically satisfying."

"As I was saying – Peter, Timo, Ivan-"

"Is Ivan still active?" Arthur interjected.

"No. Yong Soo took him out in an attempt to defend Yao from Ivan's, well, "advances"."

"I see. So, who am I forgetting? We can beat that sorry bunch, easily!"

"That team," Ludwig started up again more doggedly than before, "Originally comprised of Antonio, Feliciano, Gilbert, Peter, Timo, Ivan and Vash."

At the name Arthur sprawled further against the barricade, looking limp, "Oh, we are fucked, aren't we?"

"Ja."

**_10.12am_**

"Here," said Vash, passing Feliciano his own empty gun and continuing to hold out his hand expectantly, "Pass me your gun and go and get more pellets."

The Italian obliged, running off to grab some of their ammo stock. Upon his return, he saw Vash stood behind a tree, darting his arm out at intervals to fire calculated shots. The squeaks, yelps and thuds that sounded out in the distance were indicative of their success.

"This would be a much more effective exercise with real guns," Vash sighed, grabbing the new cartridge from the Italian, fitting it in a single motion and roaring out "You're mine, Lovino!"

The shot definitely reached his brother, Feliciano knew, from how it was followed shortly afterward by loud and crude shouts. Afterwards, an unnerving silence fell.

"Is he... is he actually dead?" he asked the Swiss man timidly. The look in the other's eyes, Feliciano realised, was exactly the same as the one Vash wore whenever he tried to shoo either himself or Francis off "his Alps".

"No," Vash punctuated the word with another shot, "No, he isn't," the man sounded particularly saddened by the fact.

Feliciano nodded meekly and took a step back to give the other young man room in which to do his work, "Have you taken out Ludwig yet?"

"No. He's fast," the Swiss man's tone again was disapproving, "Give it time. And please, just let me do my job."

"Vash, this is just a game - you do realise that, right?-" Feliciano gave up on speaking, however, when his words were lost in another volley of gunfire from the Swiss man.

**_10.37am_**

"The action isn't progressing," Ludwig noted after a time, causing Arthur to look up from his attempt to rub feeling back into his deadened knees, "At the current rate of play we will be here all day long."

"Does it matter? Come on Ludwig, attrition and wearing Vash down through boredom are probably our only hopes right now. We're hardly likely to out-shoot him, are we?"

"No. But I can take out Feliciano."

Arthur's eyebrows shot up in surprise, although from Ludwig's continued solemn frown he imagined the German was unable to read the expression, masked as it was by his helmet, "Well, if you want to try."

"I imagine I'll be a sacrifice to Vash," Ludwig said matter of factly as he raised himself up to his feet, "But you will still have Alfred when he returns from his scouting so you will at least you outnumber Vash. Perhaps the pair of you could concoct a plan to use that to advantage," his tone turning more thoughtful and slightly gentler, the man concluded, "You may also be forced to talk to each other one on one and perhaps you will begin to rectify the problems in your relationship, Arthur."

Arthur gave him a small smile, "Cheers Ludwig. I'll see you at dinner then."

"_Tschau_," Ludwig's own eyes creased with a smile behind his goggles before he grabbed his gun once more and, with a quick glance in the direction of Vash's hide-out, ran for the nearest cover.

**_10.49am_**

Ludwig cleared his throat quietly, gazing sadly down at the crouched form of his lover as the man carefully lined up canisters of paintballs from the dropped weapons of those who had left the game. Body turning stock still for a moment, Feliciano eventually turned and glanced up at the man, clearly unsurprised to see him, identifying the German from his cough alone.

"The game is nearly over," Ludwig said somewhat lamely, "Vash has taken everyone else out."

Feliciano nodded, "Yes; he's very good," he looked from Ludwig's paintball gun to the man's face, "Are you going to do it then?"

The German appeared to falter and then, swiftly, Feliciano leant down and grabbed a gun he hadn't yet dismantled. He raised it and aimed at the man's chest, causing Ludwig to take a step back in surprise.

"Feliciano?"

"Ask me," the Italian said coolly whilst Ludwig tried as hard as he could to decipher the man's expression, half-hidden behind his goggles. The man's narrowed eyes were not a good omen.

"Ask you what?"

"Whether I'm going to do it."

Ludwig only had the time to open his mouth before he heard the crack of the paint pellet leaving the gun and felt it thud against his chest. He placed his own gun on the floor in silence and turned to leave the wood. He stopped, however, as he heard a curious sound, a gentle crunching noise that was impossible to place.

Carefully, he turned to see Feliciano rubbing his gloved hands together. A second later the man pulled them apart to reveal the bright yellow paint splattered over them both, the remains of the paintball shell rubbed into either palm.

"There," he said in a lacklustre tone, joining Ludwig's side and walking with the man through the trees, "We're both finished, right?"

"Yeah," Ludwig picked up his pace, head bowed, in an attempt to put distance between Feliciano and himself. He was surprised when the man followed suit, matching his pace and eventually catching his eye.

"It's this way back to the house," Feliciano said, pointing to his right, "I remember because I thought about heading back a couple of times - I didn't really want to play. So follow me."

"Oh. Okay," Ludwig agreed and followed the man's lead, listening to the sound of their footsteps combined in quiet of their surroundings, Feliciano's gentler and rapid, his own slower and monotonous.

**_10.51am_**

Arthur gave Alfred an uneasy look as he returned to his side, unable as he was to gauge the man's expression behind his helmet.

"Ludwig and Feliciano just took each other out," he said, "Sort of. It's us and Vash left now at any rate," he said to the man, "I'm beginning to think we're scuppered."

Alfred moved his helmet a little so as to be able to fix Arthur more clearly in his sight through his goggles. To the Englishman's mind, he looked both weary from his running and from something less apparent, "I guess. We can't just give up though."

"It is just a game."

"It's the principle," the American insisted, his getting lower and hoarser with his increasing conviction, "Losers just give up. Heroes fight 'til the end."

Arthur couldn't hide his own eager stare at the words, "Yes. I've always believed in that. Always try everything you can before you just lie down and take whatever's happening to you. If something's good and worthwhile, you should never leave it for dead, never give it up without a fight."

"Yeah," Alfred agreed uncomfortably, "I guess I think the same," he squinted out across the wood, spotting Vash lying in wait behind one tree, "I've got an idea, if you want to try it."

"I can't think how to break the stalemate myself. Ludwig's idea didn't help much."

Alfred nodded, "Okay then. Remember that movie we watched?" again the American seemed awkward as he said, "When you came over to mine last, I mean."

"Which one? Surely not that horror flick "the Cottage". This weekend is about diplomacy."

"No. The other one. Hot Fuzz."

Arthur's eyes widened with understanding.

**_10.53am_**

The Swiss man frowned as he saw Arthur and Alfred fling themselves through the space between two separate clumps of trees, each firing two paintball guns as they went.

Still, surprised as he was, Vash easily moved out of the way of their shots and with two well placed shots of his own took out both men, hitting each squarely in the chest. He heard their near-simultaneous yells as they fell to the floor.

"Aw, damn it."

"Ow. Bugger."

Vash huffed out a breath and slung his paintball gun back over his shoulder. Turning to look behind him, he called out.

"Little sister, it's safe now."

The blonde girl clambered out from behind a log, dusting down her pristine camouflage and looking mildly embarrassed as she studied her brother.

"You really didn't have to, Vash."

The Swiss man gave another huff in reply.

**_10.55am_**

"Eh, I think we're lost," the Italian finally said as he gazed up to find himself in a clearing with a strange bench hewn and crafted from twisted tree branches which also canopied the seat. Ludwig too came to his senses and out of a silent reverie.

"We've been walking the wrong way," Feliciano felt the unspoken implication that it was his own fault for leading the way, "The house is back there."

"Yeah, I see it," still, the Italian sat down on the bench and let out a weary breath, giving a muscle in his calf a rub. After some hesitation, the German joined him, his breath misting before him and, Feliciano noted fondly, his cheeks and nose red from the cold.

"You could have just asked me to give it you back, you know."

The German instantly turned to face him, eyes wide.

"You know what I'm talking about," Feliciano said, almost smiling wryly from the discomfort he felt, "I know what Gilbert was doing last night. I'm not stupid; well, not that stupid."

"You're not stupid," Ludwig disagreed earnestly, "But Arthur is."

"Huh?"

The German went on, leaning against the bench with Feliciano soon following suit, finding the twisted and unshaped surface uncomfortable where it prodded between his shoulder blades.

"It was Arthur's idea that I should find a way to take your necklace and pretend to help you find it. He said it would make me look heroic," the man tailed off somewhat uneasily, clearly wishing to avoid mentioning why heroics were necessary to begin with. A thoughtful look seemed to pass across his face which prompted Feliciano to speak up.

"Yeah, I don't think you two are together now," the Italian said quietly, "I'm sorry I threw my underwear at you, and that phone."

"It's okay. It was understandable. Again, Arthur's an idiot, he has no idea about confidentiality."

"He was the "correspondent" though, wasn't he?"

"Yeah," Ludwig agreed before asking, "Why don't you think we're together, though?"

"Because he's really upset about Alfred," the other man said, shrugging and feeling his mood dip as he recalled the night before, "I've never seen him like that. He was... obviously upset. Arthur usually keeps stuff in, like," he shot a sidelong look at his lover, "Well, kind of like you."

Ludwig spoke up, looking out at the river that ran before the field they were sat in, parts of it threatening to freeze, the waters a murky grey-green, "He was my correspondent because I was writing to him for-" he paused, "For dating advice, basically. Because I am also an idiot."

"Arthur?" Feliciano clamped his mouth tight for a moment as though a bubble of laughter was liable to violently burst forth from him, "You asked him? What about Francis?"

"Like you said, me and Arthur are alike in some respects, I suppose," the German said simply, "Can you see me benefitting from any romantic advice given by Francis?"

Feliciano saw that Ludwig was puzzled at his own pensive expression, sitting forward as he was, frowning intently at nothing.

"Then," Feliciano shook his head, "Why are we fighting?"

"I don't know. I really don't."

The Italian winced at the note of pain in Ludwig's tone, and also, at the suggestion held within it that whilst they had resolved that particular issue, they were not yet capable of being happy once again. He turned to face Ludwig fully, uncomfortable at having to do so but enjoying being able to openly study his lover for the first time in weeks, "I'm really sorry."

"No," the German said with sudden vehemence, "No, it is not your fault."

"It is though," the Italian suddenly took the man's gloved hand and held it between both of his own in a kind of supplication, "I didn't understand you. It's my fault."

"How do you mean?"

Turning awkward once more, Feliciano continued, looking at their held hands as he did so, "You just questioned everything. You asked me how I liked my food, where I'd like to go out at night, what should you wear, when I'd like to go home, how I felt. Did I want sex? How?" he stopped as he felt the man considering pulling away, squeezing Ludwig's hand a little tighter, "And... Well, the truth is, I started to think that maybe you just wanted to end things."

Ludwig's look was enough of a question to inspire Feliciano to go on with his explanation, "I thought it meant that you'd had enough but you were trying, I don't know, maybe trying to get me to realise things were over by making me want to leave you instead of just saying yourself."

"Oh," the German nodded slowly, mulling over the man's words, "But why the decorating? When you started it you seemed happy, but the longer it went on you became... angry about it."

"It's really stupid," Feliciano warned, letting go of Ludwig's hand at last to wrap his arms about himself with a shiver.

"Tell me, please? I really don't understand; I'm sorry."

"I know."

"And I love you."

"I know that, too," Feliciano smiled, feeling how the cold had made his lips dry, the skin cracking a little as he pulled the expression, "It's like this..." he peered out from under his lowered eyelids, through his lashes, "You don't need me," he held up a hand, wagging an admonishing finger, "Don't interrupt yet."

"Okay."

"Okay. You don't need me," he went on, "Because you're really - I guess it's because you're business-minded and clever and everyone likes you for that. You're really independent. You'd be fine without me. But me and my brother, we've always relied on other people and the only things I'm any good at are stuff like cooking and painting," he said noncommittally. His voice lowered as he added, "And, of course – and it's not your fault so don't apologise or I'll hit you – you don't remember when we were kids, so it's again like I need you more than you need me. I guess I thought that if I did all that decorating you'd sort of have to keep me around because, no offence but you're too heavy handed for that kind of stuff."

There was a silence as Ludwig considered Feliciano's words.

"But you don't realise," he spoke up at length, "That I wanted to be "business-minded and clever" because of you. I want to be as good as I can be because of you. I could just sit and drink beer and eat all day-"

"You mean like your brother?"

"If you tell him that, he'll seize your vital regions," The German warned, before pressing on, "But I do need you. I need you to," he contemplated, looking at the distant, misty outline of hills on the horizon, "To give me a purpose."

Feliciano wriggled uncomfortably but Ludwig went on doggedly, "And besides, you cook for me, you sing, you paint, you dress me, you take care of me when I'm ill-"

"Yeah, yeah," the Italian said with embarrassment.

"No," Ludwig almost seemed to turn almost angry or at least decisive and sincere as he overrode the other man, taking a firm hold of Feliciano's hands and looking at him through slightly narrowed eyes, "It's nothing to "yeah yeah". I mean it. I need you," Feliciano's eyebrows lifted a little at the surprise of seeing Ludwig, after a few uncertain twitches of his mouth, hitch a sly, teasing and indeed relieved looking smile onto his lips, although the expression in the German's eyes looked baffled by the development, "You're an idiot for thinking I didn't need you, you realise? I can't remember the last time I picked out an outfit in the morning for work or cooked my own breakfast."

"Hey," The Italian bridled a little, "You were angry with me too; you pulled away from me, too! And you just said I wasn't stupid."

"No, but you are an idiot," Ludwig insisted, his smile slipping and becoming crooked as he added, "And I guess I can be foolish as well."

"Why were you being weird with me?" At the man's puzzlement, Feliciano explained, "There were so many times when you looked at me as though we were fighting. You looked really defensive and insulted."

"I..." Ludwig mused, "I couldn't stop thinking about how vibrant and how lively and how beautiful you are and I wondered if you'd make some kind of mistake by agreeing to be with me," he added, with a wince, "You yawned mid-coitus on one occasion."

Feliciano scowled, "You got home late from work! And," he admitted, "I was annoyed at you for working so much, so I thought I'd try and get a rise out of you."

"Oh," Feeling a shiver run through the Italian, Ludwig began to chafe the man's hands with his own. He appeared to focus upon the action as he spoke, "I see. That would not have been very effective since I like to work when I'm feeling stressed."

Slipping his hands out from Ludwig's grasp, Feliciano leant forward, shaking his head despairingly as he planted a kiss on the German's chin, "You definitely are an idiot too."

"I'm your idiot," Ludwig told him, and the Italian moved up a little closer so that he could, when Ludwig bowed his head, press his lips against the other man's with a contented smile.

Feliciano pulled back enough to study how Ludwig seemed to be working a hand down the collar of his camouflage. The action was soon explained when one finger reappeared with the chain of a necklace hooked about it. Seeing Ludwig fumble with the clasp, the Italian reached out and undid the clip for him, holding it out to the German afterward. With an appreciative nod, Ludwig took the chain and gestured with a flick of one fingertip for Feliciano to lift his chin a little. The man smiled at the gloomy, swirling mess of the English winter sky overhead as he felt Ludwig fasten the necklace back about his own neck, stroking his hair free of the chain. Feliciano gave a pleasant shiver at the sensation of the slightly warm metal settling back against his skin afterwards and, with an even more peaceful expression on his face he tilted his head enough for his lover to place him a kiss on the pulse beating in his neck.

**A/N******

**"Hot Fuzz" ** As Arthur notes in another chapter, Hot Fuzz is a British action/comedy "buddy cop" movie. It's the perfect blend of American action (the film pays tribute to countless action movies and mentions several) and British humour. Another film by Simon Pegg and Nick Frost, "Shaun of the Dead" is a similar blend of American horror and British humour. I like to think that those movies are two of a very select few that Arthur and Alfred could watch together without too much griping from either of them.


	15. Chapter 15

_**January 11**__**th**__**, Derbyshire  
11.15am**_

With his camouflage already pushed down about his waist, Alfred threw the door of the bathroom shut hard enough to create an ominous groaning and crunching noise of door meeting frame. The sound caused a head to peer around the corner of the l-shaped room. Arthur, also stripped to his trousers, gave the other man an awkward, surprised glance, his hand resting upon the folding door of the shower cubicle.

"Occupied," he said, finding his voice, "Sorry, I must have forgotten to lock the door."

The American gave a single nod and grabbed at the door handle once again to no avail. Putting more and more effort into pulling on the handle, the Englishman was alarmed to see how the whole door appeared to be bending in the middle with the man's exertion.

"Shit," letting go momentarily in order to shake life back into his hands, Alfred opted to plant a foot firmly against the skirting board and set to work again, this time slamming the door back and forth in the frame as though attempting to loosen it.

"I'd appreciate it if you stopped that," Arthur said, "I'm paying for any damage we cause."

"Then what do we do?" the other man asked, turning to face him, "Just sit and wait for someone? I'm guessing you haven't got your cell phone either?"

"I haven't. And yes, we should wait; others will want to use the bathroom so it won't be too long," Arthur's words tailed off as he noticed the hungry manner in which Alfred was studying him. He spoke up again in an effort to distract himself from the expression, pushing the shower door closed again.

"Your idea earlier was awful, just so you know. The paintballing one, I mean. Not that I had anything better to offer, mind you," he gave his chest a delicate rub as though to qualify his argument, "I'm going to have a bruise where Vash hit me, I know it. We gave him such an easy target."

The American's expression turned inexplicably dark at the words and, without warning, Arthur found himself being walked up against the shower door by the man. Arthur studied him in turn, his own expression uneasy as he looked into Alfred's eyes, finding the sight of the man without his glasses curious. It put him in mind, he realised, of the man before his independence or else of Alfred as he was in the present day when they were in bed together. He tried to meet the man's inscrutable gaze, noticing in spite of himself how unnervingly bright and sharp the man's eyes seemed.

"What's up with you-" the Englishman abandoned the question in favour of tilting his head and returning the hard kiss that Alfred pressed against his mouth moments later. The American muttered something unintelligible into the touch, only pausing to take a ragged breath and to throw off his t-shirt.

Arthur felt almost doll-like in the American's grasp, the man's hands pushing and pulling him so that he could gain access to whatever part of his body he desired at that moment in time. He watched as though a spectator as Alfred pulled at his trousers, the fabric tugging against his flesh as he failed to pull the zip down entirely before yanking them down. The sensation against the Englishman's growing arousal made him frown with need, biting on his lip.

In time, Alfred's mouth found the Englishman's old tattoo, licking along one point of the compass drawn on his arm before moving on to his chest, biting at one nipple until it was erect and tender, whilst Arthur attempted all the while to keep himself stationary against the slick plastic of the shower door.

He could scarcely comprehend all that happened between Alfred tracing his ribs with his fingertips and the man sinking to his knees to take him into his mouth. All the Englishman was capable of acknowledging was that their acts had been in silence, or, at least with no words exchanged, only pants, hitches in breath and sharp grunts of need. Any more thought on the matter was lost in the sensation of the American beginning to pleasure him, making obscene slurping and lapping noises as he did so, seeming to make a concentrated effort to take Arthur as deeply into his mouth as he could.

As Arthur's hands strayed to the other man's hair, the American pulled away, mouth wet from his task, and instead got back to his feet. He tugged down his own trousers and briefs and turned Arthur again, this time to face one wall with a near-shove of his hand. Arthur felt his feet slip on the tiled floor in his bid to keep still and to stop the rocking of his body in its effort to fill or else be filled. His mind, however, came whirring back to life at the touch.

He felt Alfred stroke a hand down his backside and twisted around suddenly, pulling away from the man and giving him a hard, firm shake of the head. The American gave him a look of puzzlement in return.

"No. I won't do it."

"Oh?" Alfred said, making the word sound something akin to a challenge.

"I won't," Arthur willed his aroused body back to normality, trying purposefully to calm his breathing, something made more difficult by the churning sensation of his mounting emotions inside him, "I won't let all this happen again."

"All what happen?"

Arthur caught the American's eye as the man dressed again, hastily pulling up his own trousers as he did so. Unwillingly, he felt where the fabric had rubbed his thighs when shoved down just minutes earlier.

"Alfred, we can't return to how we were before with the pointless fucks that we're not allowed to talk about."

The Englishman saw how when Alfred spoke he was merely vocalising an anger his previous actions had expressed.

"What else have we got, Arthur?" Alfred asked, walking back over to the doorway in order to put as much distance as he could between himself and the Englishman, "Did you hear the crap you were talking about just now? Mindless, vacant _nothing? _You've blown away everything else we had."

"You really don't know," Arthur said as delicately as his shuddering breathing would allow, "You don't know what I meant when I said those things."

"Arthur-"

Looking up at his lover, the Englishman pressed on, "Do you remember how I said, back in Blackpool, that if I came over to visit you I'd have to pay my own way? And I said too about how there were certain things, about the past, that I wasn't ready to talk about?"

"Yeah," the other man said, affecting apathy.

"I still don't want to talk about them," Arthur gave their surroundings a look of disconsolate despair, "And especially not in here, of all places. I didn't envisage either that I would be telling you these things because our relationship would be in fucking pieces."

As the Englishman's words faltered and faded away, Alfred spoke up, expression icy.

"I heard what you said that night. I remember what I was doing, too. I was sat on my sofa and I was eating ice cream. You rang and I was kind of happy, even though it was late for you, because I like to hear your voice sometimes. I don't know why, I guess it's from when I was a kid," the man said, voice deep and quiet, "And then you started shouting. You kept saying how I belong to you and, at first, I thought it came from nowhere and that hurt," he pointedly avoided Arthur's eye as he concluded.

"After that, I realised that kind of thing isn't something you say for no reason and that it had to mean something for you to think about it while you were drunk," Arthur realised, his heart aching at the sight, that there were tears in the man's eyes that stood out all the more clearly without glasses to mask them. The American blinked them back tiredly.

"I love you."

"Arthur, you have to stop saying that," Alfred sighed angrily, raising a hand to rub at his temple, "Okay? You say it but you go and say I belong to you as well and I know right then that you love some little kid who thinks you're a superhero, Santa Claus and a Knight in shining armour all rolled into one. Can't you see that that means nothing?"

The Englishman pinched at the bridge of his nose and took a few breaths in an attempt to keep himself collected, eyes closed.

"I meant it when I said you belong to me," somehow, he made out the sound of the American's breath catching in his throat at the admission, "But you belong to me because I love you; you, as you are now, and I never want anyone to hurt you."

"I can look after myself."

"I know. I know," Arthur gave a weak laugh as he finally began to cry, feeling mildly disgusted with himself as he did so, "It's just that... I was always apart, removed. I always kept to myself and looked after myself before," the man said, seeing the American's look of irritation and bafflement but continuing, "I needed no one. I wanted no one because no one else really seemed to _fit_ with me," he sent a quick look Alfred's way, "And then I found you. And I just knew you were meant for me," the man had to stop for a moment to collect himself, slamming his hand irritably against one wall as he tried to stop crying, "You were just _everything_, and I finally didn't want to be alone. I know that sounds ridiculous considering how I've kept you at arm's length over the years but believe me; I always wanted you, even when the concept has scared me beyond belief. You've always been mine, and you've always belonged to me because you're meant for me."

Uncomfortably, it seemed, the American maintained his previous guarded stance.

"I don't belong to anyone."

"No, that's not it," Arthur said, desperately, "You fool, you think I would want to own you now? You're your own man; you do want you want and I'm glad of it, I never want to go back to how things were towards the end, leading up to the war," he sighed, "You see, I think of myself as belonging to you, too."

Almost in spite of himself it seemed, the American's expression faltered to one of open, honest confusion.

"I am yours," Arthur said, a darker note entering his voice, "I am yours, completely, to do with what you will. I belong to you because I love you and if my love is returned then I assume I make you happy and therefore I want you to have all of me, everything. You can do whatever you want with me, dispose of me however you feel, though," the man added, softly, "I never want you to."

"You kept saying something else," Alfred added with a frown, ""It's not on; it's just not on". What did that even mean?"

The Englishman folded his arms across his chest in a protective as opposed to a defensive or aggressive manner.

"As odd as it sounds, I actually talked to Francis about this and I told him that I think our relationship has changed beyond belief and that's why we have a chance of being together, unlike back then. I believe that. The balance of power in this relationship has altered totally. _You_ call the shots now. You can do whatever you want with me and, as ridiculous and as hypocritical as it might be to say so, I still hope that you won't. I don't want our relationship to be a mirror of back then. I'm already yours, you see, without any manipulation on your part."

It took a long, loaded silence before Alfred spoke up, an animated sort of surprise in his eyes.

"Those books I sent you, for the conference. The calls and the books."

Arthur turned awkward at the words, giving a feeble nod, lips pursed.

"You think that's me manipulating you?"

"...Influencing me, yes," the Englishman admitted, "And I know it's bloody rich coming from me, after the way I treated you when you were young, but I just so desperately want our relationship to be different to how it was then."

"So do I," Alfred noted and with relief Arthur saw how the man's expression seemed to clear a little, "I want things to change, to keep changing. Arthur, there's no way we're going back to how we were."

"I'm sorry."

"I know," Alfred nodded, "It's a start," he looked to the ceiling, tiredly, "I still don't know what I think, but we'll get there. In the meanwhile," the man moved over to the doorway and Arthur was left mouth agape as the American pulled the door open with a simple twist of the handle.

At the man's look, Alfred smirked.

"Maybe I threw the lock on earlier: you're not the only one who wanted to sort things out. My method involved punches and noogies though, so I'm glad we went with yours."

"So, are things alright now?" Arthur asked uneasily as the American threatened to walk out of the bathroom. The man turned back to consider him.

"Not really," Alfred admitted, "But we can be civil, we can keep from just having angry fucks like we used to. We can keep trying to sort things out."

"What do I have to do to get us back to where we were?"

"I don't even know yet Arthur," Alfred said weakly, hand clutching the door handle tighter, "Just let me deal with this in my own time, okay?" he studied Arthur momentarily, "How about you, anyway? Are you okay? You've seemed different this weekend."

"I'm fine," Arthur said, curtly, before adding with a little more honesty, "I suppose I just want to prove that I'm perfectly capable of making a good job of a Conference, that I'm not a total waste of space."

"You're not."

"Mm," the man said noncommittally, "I better have a shower so I can go back to being a host again but, Alfred, remember-"

"Arthur. It's fine."

Arthur held the man's arm so he could press a quick kiss to his lips before he made to leave. Alfred gave a smile.

"Don't worry. Okay?"

_**2.56pm  
From "UNKNOWN NUMBER"  
**_  
Alfred, it's Feliciano. Where did you and Arthur go after the paintball game? Is everything okay? You missed the tug of war. Did you two make up? Please come and meet me in the corridor leading to the biggest living room so we can talk.

_**3.05pm**_

Alfred found Feliciano, as per the man's texted instruction, sat in a bay window and looking out at the cold grounds and gardens, watching the rise and fall of a water fountain with a fond smile. Catching sight of the American in the glass, he turned and beamed even more brightly, causing Alfred to stumble over his own thoughts.

"You and Ludwig fixed things," he said, finding himself mirroring the man's beatific smile with relief. Feliciano gave a pleased sort of nod before pulling up his legs and patting the space in the bay window seat beside him. Alfred curled himself up into the space and rested his head against the cold pane.

"Yeah. Things are better," the Italian agreed, "Which means that, if you want, I feel a lot happier about giving you advice again."

"Dating advice you mean?"

"Yeah," Feliciano traced a pattern onto the slightly misty glass, the touch squeaking, "But I don't want to intrude, it's just an offer."

"You have suggestions?"

"Just one."

Alfred awkwardly pulled up his knees further against his chest, wrapping an arm about them, "Tell me. I'm lost."

"Okay," Feliciano said, turning thoughtful, "I just wonder if you'd considered how your relationship with Arthur is real."

The American looked blankly at his companion, who gave a slight, embarrassed blush.

"I mean it like this," he went on, "Because you live apart a lot, when you see each other it's a big deal – and it should be," the Italian added hastily, "But that also means that you might have a warped view of things. Those weeks you spend together must be a little, eh - I don't know - ideal. That would make any argument worse."

"This is not just an argument."

"No, I know that," Feliciano's voice became softer, "But it's okay to have problems with each other. Your relationship is real, it will have difficulties."

Alfred pulled a grimace, "I wonder if it's worth all this though."

"It is," Feliciano smiled, "Don't tell him I said so, but I think Arthur has been a very lonely man for a long time. He loves you very much. It is just that he likes being strong and proud as well and it hurts him to be honest with you because that means that he has to admit how alone he has felt."

"Like Darcy."

"Hm?"

"Never mind," Alfred smiled, "You're right. I'll try and talk to him before the weekend's over I guess, or later if I can't then. I'm still angry though, he was out of line."

"Yes," Feliciano agreed, "But he's flawed, like any one of us. We live so long it's tiring to keep grudges, don't you think?"

Alfred watched the fountain continue to spray water steadily into the air, the flecks of foam standing out, white as snow against the gloomy sky.

"Yeah. You're pretty good at this stuff, Feliciano."

The man blushed a deep red at the compliment.

"I guess it comes from my big brother," he said. Alfred noticed, as his gaze wandered, that the shapes Feliciano had traced upon the glass were a simple cross, its horizontal arms widest, surrounded by stars.

_**7.42pm**_

"So where does that encounter leave you?" Ludwig said as he pensively looked at Arthur over a mug of tea.

Arthur gave a shrug, already refilling his own cup from the kitchen's kettle. He jabbed at the tea bag in the bottom of his mug with his spoon with unnecessary vigour.

"I don't know. But I appreciate what he's saying, we can't force things," he slurped a little of his tea and sighed, "I still can't believe you've already fixed things, you jammy sod."

"Thank you for your support."

"No problem," Arthur closed his eyes, breathing in the steam from his drink for a moment, "What did we both miss this afternoon, anything good?"

"Not especially. There was a stalemate for several minutes during the tug of war before, apparently, someone informed Ivan of the aim of the game after which then his team promptly won," Ludwig rested against one of the kitchen counters, "I think more than anything people were curious where their host had gone."

"Did they noticed Alfred didn't come back either?"

"Arthur, as I said in Starbucks last year, yours and Alfred's relationship is well known to most of us. What are your plans for this evening?"

"Nothing, really. I don't want to push my luck with Alfred so I'll lay off until tomorrow, perhaps try again with him then," the Englishman finished his tea, and, after giving the kettle a tempted look, placed the empty mug in the sink, "Things are improving, just slowly."

"You will keep in touch, won't you?" Arthur looked startled by the question and quickly busied himself with the knot of his tie to mask his shock, "I mean when we all return home, I hope that you would feel able to keep in contact and continue our correspondence."

Arthur pulled an embarrassed face, "I'd have thought you'd have been relieved to escape that fate."

"A little," the German agreed, giving a tired yawn behind one hand as the effects of his restless night began to catch up with him more and more, "But you have, if unsuccessfully, attempted to aid my efforts with Feliciano. I appreciate that. If I can, I would like to help you and Alfred in kind."

"Wait, are you saying you want to give _me_ dating advice now? That's an even worse idea than me giving you tips."

"No. I think it would be better if I acted as support, as a friend, perhaps," Ludwig said, with a slight, wry smile, "I should go now Arthur; I promised to say good night to Feliciano. I will see you in our bedroom later."

"See you then."

With the unusual and slightly unpleasant taste of milky tea still on his tongue, Ludwig wandered through the corridors of the house, considering with relief how much more pleasant and ordered his life seemed now that he knew Feliciano would shortly greet him with a warm smile, arms wrapped about his neck lazily and possessively.

He was, therefore, caught off guard when he came across Alfred in the corridor and saw the American's comprehension of the fleeting expressions of surprise and discomfort that had momentarily flashed across his own face.

"Evening."

"You've been talking to Arthur," Alfred said simply. Ludwig's shoulders came as close as they ever did to slumping, causing Alfred to smile lopsidedly in return.

"It's fine, seriously. We're not in damn teams... Well, except those stupid team building exercises teams. I heard from Feliciano that Ivan won the tug of war this afternoon."

"Ivan's team won," Ludwig corrected.

"No, just Ivan by the sound of it," Alfred insisted, expression momentarily sour, "Whatever. It's okay to talk to me; Arthur won't care or think you're passing secrets. The two of us are kind of okay," he admitted, "I'm just still not sure what his deal is. He's so messed up that guy."

"I am not sure that is a fair comment."

"Nah, it is," Alfred said, as he moved to rest against one wall, arms crossed, "And that's cool because I am too. It's our past," he shot Ludwig a look, "Shit, sorry, I'm treating you like Feliciano. You probably don't want to hear about all of this."

"I would like to know, actually," Ludwig said, politely, "I am not sure even now how your relationship with Arthur stands. I have offered to remain in touch with him, as a friend," his tone turned uncomfortable, "But I have no real understanding of the nature of your relationship beyond the fact that it is-"

"Special?" Alfred offered.

"Indeed."

"The way I see it, it's like this," Alfred began to study a portrait on the opposite wall, "We both like to be independent and self-reliant. I think it's partly so we can brag, partly because that's just who we are and partly because, well, because I want to show him I'm not a kid and that I can look after myself. To make him proud."

"I see. Then what is your concern with Arthur?"

"I guess," Alfred considered, looking through as opposed to at the painting, "It's this. He feels like he needs to prove himself to me or he thinks that I just want to show him that I'm better than him," he smiled, "And I kind of do, but only for fun, you know? What I really want," he rolled his eyes, "This sounds really bad I know, but I really just want him to see that I love him. He's always freaking out about any favours I do him because of that stupid Island Mentality he's got, and then I start freaking out that whatever I do will always make him panic and start a pissing contest."

"Oh."

"And just hearing him on the phone saying that I belonged to him," the man shook his head, "I can't believe him just yet when he says that he didn't mean it that way. Arthur always keeps a little bit of himself back. Stiff upper lip and all, right? But I just want to know, for once, that I really have him," again he shot Ludwig a stern look, "And not like plant-my-flag-on-his-ass "have him", okay?"

"I understand, Alfred. I fear Arthur does not, however," the German said.

"Go and find Feliciano," Alfred waved a hand at his companion, "I've bored you enough. Things are going to be fine. I just need to cool off for a while - I think it's gonna take longer than the Conference for me and Arthur to fix things, but it's okay. Thanks for listening."

"It's not a problem," meeting the American's eye, Ludwig gave the man a curiously imploring look, "Do not give up on him."

Alfred gave another smile that creased the corners of his eyes behind his glasses, "Yeah, Feliciano asked me not to either. Is that because we should be together or because you want to make sure you don't to get a drunk, miserable Arthur on your doorstep in the dead of night?"

Ludwig continued on his way down the corridor, "Both. Good night, Alfred."

_**January 12**__**th**__**, Derbyshire  
11.58am  
**_**  
**Arthur ignored the knock on his bedroom door the next morning when it first sounded out, dismissing it as announcing the arrival of Feliciano. However, as his sleepy mind began to process the noise and its implications it became abundantly clear that it was his own lover who was waiting to be let in, since Feliciano was liable to forget such formalities and did not possess the same ability to creating a level of sound from knocking akin to the crack of a bullet leaving a gun barrel.

Noticing Ludwig's bed was already empty, the man squinted in the unusually bright sunlight that filled the room and made his way over to the doorway, leaning against the wall as he opened it and looked out. He made out the blurred outline of Alfred's glinting glasses' lens and Nantucket sticking up as rebelliously as ever.

"'Lo."

"Hey," Alfred said with apparent amusement, "Taking it easy today or something?"

The Englishman came to his senses a little as he noticed the other man taking in the sight of his night attire of the football jersey. He gave the shirt a little tug in order to further cover his knees.

"What'd you mean?"

With a sigh, Alfred held up his arm so that his watch faced the other man. Arthur gave it a glance and then, with a groan, grabbed a hold of Alfred's forearm and stared harder.

"What! How they hell is it nearly noon?"

"You out-slept Herakles," Alfred said, impressed, "No one thought that was possible. Stress, maybe?"

Arthur was already half-way across the room however, flinging open a suitcase and pulling out various items of clothing. The man only stopped when Alfred gave him a wolf-whistle as he stripped off to his briefs. He turned to give the American an enraged stare.

"Do you mind?" his hands continued to fumble with the fastenings of his clothing, "And did it not bloody occur to any of you to come and wake me up? Christ, why didn't Ludwig do it? All I want is to make a decent job of this weekend. It's not much to ask; I mean, I have actually _tried_ and then you two think it'll be funny to let me sleep."

"Because we all thought you needed a break," Alfred said, joining Arthur beside the suitcase. After a unsuccessful attempt of his own, he tied Arthur's tie for him since the man was quaking too much to manage the task himself, "And there's a surprise in this living room for you, by the way."

"I don't want to know what the hell that means."

"You're finding out," Alfred grabbed a cardigan from the suitcase and, after unbuttoning it, threw it to the Englishman, "Come on, like you said, you're already late. Oh, yeah, a few guys have already had to leave to catch flights, they said to say thanks."

Arthur followed him down the corridor, back hunched from sleepiness and tension, "They've got a horrid sense of humour some of them."

"Arthur, just hang fire okay?" The pair made the living room and Alfred gave a pleased smile, "What's that look like to you?"

Arthur glanced about at the small groups of men and women working together on written projects atop circular conference tables. Curiously, a sound remarkably like friendly laughter rang out from several areas of the room, as people jotted down notes. At a glance, the Englishman was able to spot the Norwegian man offering his Dane table-mate a polite if typically mysterious smile. At the table nearest the doorway the Cuban man could be seen talking happily to Matthew, clearly having recognised the man straight away if the Canadian's ecstatic grin was anything to go by, an expression which had earned the man, Arthur saw, the attention and interest of Francis from across the other side of the room.

"It looks remarkably like people developing relationships and being diplomatic," Arthur said in a soft voice as though fearful the sight before him might dissolve away to nothing.

"Yeah. And those activities look kind of... corny. Less paintball, less pretend mine-fields and more like talking and empathising."  
_**  
**_Able to stand up more attentively, Arthur took his eyes off the groups and let out a sigh.

"Alright," he admitted in a mumble, "Perhaps I did skim through a few of those books you sent me last week because I got nervous when I looked at my preparations and just saw Chinese take-out and paintball on there. But look where it's gotten us. No-one looks overjoyed, except Matthew, and possibly Francis."

Alfred gave his brother a quick, uncertain glance, before shaking himself back to his senses.

"Look, Arthur, you're clearly not getting it so I'll just explain somethin' to you."

"Go on," the Englishman said with a nod, looking dubious all the while, "I'm listening."

"The truth is that there's never _been_ a good World Conference weekend; it's not possible. Remember mine? You nearly busted your nose when I tried to pass you that basketball and Matt and I fell out kinda badly."

"Of course I remember."

"And remember that time when we all came away with huge pads full of notes at Ludwig's place, but we were all bored to death?"

"Not really," Arthur admitted, "I kept sneaking out with Gilbert to get trollied at the nearest beerhouse."

"So are you seeing a pattern?"

"Yes; it's vaguely Catch-22. It's either interesting and useless or boring and productive."

"Exactly," Alfred said with evident satisfaction, "Or it can be '92 and it can be boring, unhelpful and traumatic. And Francis can spill red wine on Berwald's unvarnished, hand crafted coffee table and he can do that one _stare_ he has for an hour."

Arthur appeared to physically steel himself, setting his shoulders firmly before he spoke.

"Please say this weekend hasn't been as bad as '92."

"No, it isn't; Blackpool wasn't and this isn't either so you're two for two," the American added, "It still sucks pretty bad but no more than any of the other conferences have," he gestured across the room to Toris, who was currently laughing and trying to grab a pen from Feliks, the other man teasing him by pulling it away each time with a shake of his head or a blob of his tongue, "Toris told me, they did kind of find it interesting, or at least they liked this last morning," Alfred grinned, unable to keep from rubbing the facts of the matter in, it seemed, "You know, while you weren't here? It gave everyone a great opportunity to talk about me and you."

"How lovely," Arthur shook his head, at a loss, "I think it just goes to show you. Schadenfreude and bitchy high school gossip are much more effective at bringing people together than anything either of us could have planned."

The words earned him a puzzled look from the American, ""Us"?"

"Yeah. You did give me those books, and I did sort of grudgingly use them. It's been a joint effort really, this conference."

"Huh. Cool," Alfred studied the room, chest puffed out at the thought. He deflated again as he went on, looking at Arthur.

"I need to go now too; I'm flying from Heathrow. I already said bye to everyone before I came to wake you up."

Hands thrust into the pockets of his cardigan, Arthur shot him a furtive look from under his brows, "Want me to drive you there?"

The American walked back out of the living room with Arthur at his side, heading to his bedroom to collect his packed suitcases which he lifted easily and strode with through the now familiar corridors to the main entrance. He placed both cases on the floor and shook his head at Arthur.

"Nah, I don't think so," he gestured to the house, "You need to fix this place up anyway."

"I rather thought running away might be a good idea since I'm bound to have scratched some relic or other," the Englishman said with a hopeful smile which the American returned a little sadly. He strode over to Arthur and gave the man a kiss, the Englishman returning the touch eagerly, teasing Alfred's mouth open. His hands found and cupped the man's shoulders and kept him in place until the American moved decisively away and out of the grip.

"We can't rush this."

Arthur's expression faltered and slipped.

"You're pulling away. You told me not to do that on that postcard and you're doing it yourself."

"I just need time to think."

"Then think here instead, there's plenty of room for you here," Arthur said, hands still resting on the man's jacketed shoulders. His fingers strayed to stroke the fur of the bomber jacket's collar, "Don't leave just yet."

"I'm still not totally sure where _you_ are," the American admitted, "Whether you're here, now, or still imagining we're back in the 1700s. I heard what you said, about belonging to each other," he said with a frown, "Maybe I need to let that sink in, really think about it and whether I believe that, but I have to go home. I need some space."

Arthur's lips pulled into a taut, pained sort of smile as he nodded.

"Alright. If you think that's best."

"I'll call," Alfred said, as he picked up the cases again and headed out, leaving the other man to simply stand huddled in the doorway without a jacket or shoes.

"I'll prove that I'm yours," The American turned back to consider Arthur as the man called after him, "I promise."

"I want you to. I just can't see how you can right now."

Arthur watched the man's retreating back as he headed down the drive, footsteps crunching on the gravel, only just catching the man's murmur of "Later."

"Later," he said, equally quiet, before closing the imposing wooden door behind him, finding the action far more of a challenge than the American had appeared to moments before.


	16. Chapter 16

_**January 12**__**th**__**, Berlin,  
11.31pm**_

Feliciano gave a long stretch to work the travel-induced crick out of his neck once he and Ludwig were stood in the man's living room, their suitcases still at their side. Muscles a little looser, his eyes roved reluctantly over to the unfinished decorating project before them. The Italian walked up to the pile of frames heaped in one corner and lifted a few experimentally, studying the gleam of their varnish and turning to consider the different hooks fixed to one wall as he held each frame.

"I will finish all of this, I promise," he said, turning to give the German a smile. The expression faltered momentarily as he looked down to consider the sheet he was stood on, "It's dusty."

"You were gone for a considerable time," Ludwig noted.

"Yeah, I was," Feliciano placed the frames back on their pile and went to grab his suitcase, which Ludwig quickly took from him as the Italian threatened to overbalance, "But that's over now," he grabbed a cabin luggage bag instead and followed the German to their bedroom, where he paused and gave his own bed frame a stunned look.

"I-"

"You forgot about it?"

"Kind of," Feliciano agreed, striding over and running a hand over the frame through the delicate fabric of the enclosing curtains, "I didn't realise you had put it together, after everything that happened."

"It's very beautiful," Ludwig said by way of explanation, pushing the handle of the suitcase down and coming to stand at Feliciano side, close enough that their arms brushed against each other, "You were right."

"Of course I was," Feliciano said, giving the man a teasing little grin. The man's hands found the opening in the curtains and he climbed onto the bed to settle against the mound of pillows, arms outstretched either side of him.

"I always liked this bed," Feliciano said in a tone suggestive of lazy satisfaction.

"Ah!" Ludwig, in a far less graceful motion joined his lover, the mattress sinking a little as he did so and encouraging Feliciano to roll over and rest upon one of Ludwig's shoulders, "Don't fall asleep yet, I have something to tell you."

"Ve? What?" Feliciano raised an eyebrow, eyes already hazy with sleep, "What about?"

"About our argument."

At the words the Italian came further to his senses, albeit reluctantly.

"I thought we were okay now."

Ludwig nodded, hand resting on Feliciano's waist, "We are. I just wanted to be in our own home, in private, when I told you this."

"What?" The Italian shuffled about on the bed enough so to able to study Ludwig hard, his own expression turning a little desperate at how indecipherable the German's manner was, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Ludwig made a noise that almost resembled a laugh, fingers slipping beneath the band of Feliciano's jeans, "Nothing at all. I wanted you to know that when you threw your pants at me-"

"I'm really sorry I did that. They were clean, but it was still rude, I know."

Ludwig shushed the man.

"Let me finish," earning himself a nod from the Italian, he continued, "When you threw those pants at me, I remembered," he said, in a tone that suggested relief and satisfaction.

"Remembered what?" Feliciano said, brow drawn, "Ludwig, you're not making sense."

"I remembered," Ludwig said, unfazed, "When you gave me your pants back then," the German joined his lover in frowning, "Or at least, I think so. I wonder if my memory is confused, because I remember that they were, well, bloomers."

His expression turned wide eyed at the speed with which Feliciano moved away to sit bolt upright on the bed. The Italian cupped his mouth with his hands, returning Ludwig's stunned look. A moment later and his eyes were teary and bright and a muffled sobbing came from behind his hands.

"Oh, you remember," the man said, his voice trembling, "Oh, you remember when went away to fight."

"Yes," Ludwig got to his own knees and without hesitation pulled his lover to himself. Feliciano's cries changed after a time to laughter, his hands falling from his face to clutch at the German's t-shirt, twisting it out of shape. Ludwig pulled back enough so as to kiss the man's face and the tear tracks there.

"So do you see now?"

Feliciano frowned, eyes bright from crying.

"No? See what?"

"You see how I needed you, treasure," Ludwig said, the pet name causing Feliciano to let one of his clutching hands stroke a little instead, "How I needed you back then, and still now."

_**January 12**__**th**__**, London  
4.08pm**_

Alfred was able to catch himself just before he began speaking when Arthur's front door swung open before him and he was faced with a man with dirty blonde hair and gigantic eyebrows. The words ready to trip off his tongue, he spotted how the man was evidently Arthur, but with deliberate mistakes. The look the other man was wearing, that Alfred had been steeling himself to be one of confusion and hope was instead nonplussed. Likewise the man's eyes were brown and his hair slightly wilder.

"Yes?" The man said in a deep and gravelly voice.

"James, right?"

"Yes," James raised one large eyebrow at the man, arms folded across a chest considerably wider than his brother's, "Do you know where he is? He left me a message asking if I'd come down south to feed Winston for him 'cos he'd be gone a fair while and also check no kids piss in his front garden. I already wanted to come and give him a seeing to after that phone call of his," he gestured with a nod back into the house, "But he's already fucked off."

"Oh. Wait, Winston?"

"His goldfish."

"Oh, right," Alfred shrugged lamely, "I don't know. I thought he'd be here," as he spoke, the American felt doubts and questions rise within him and added, with suspicion, "You're not lying, are you? You know, to cover for him? If he's just hiding from me, tell me."

James gave Alfred a straight-faced, unimpressed look.

"You really think I'd do my brother a favour?"

"You came to feed his goldfish."

The Scotsman shook his head firmly, "I came to give him a seeing to. Winston's probably out to sea by now. And Arthur's an idiot if he thinks it's kids who piss in his garden: it's him, when he's steaming," upon seeing the American's perplexed look, he added, resentfully, "Drunk."

"So you're not covering for him?"

"Not a chance. But," he added, as though recollecting, "His wardrobe doors were opened, I saw, and half his clothes are missing. So he's definitely gone somewhere, and I'd say it's somewhere far away and pretty cold – he left his shorts and cozzie. You can rule out Oz."

"Thanks. I better keep looking."

Already closing the door, James gave a parting snigger.

"I wouldn't bother, if I were you."

"Sure."

"Ah! Wait though," he opened the door a crack and Alfred turned back to face him once again, "One other thing. The shirt's gone."

"What?"

James seemed taken aback by the response, studying Alfred before saying with greater emphasis, "_The_ shirt. His pride and joy. He's had that thing in his wardrobe since '66. He wouldn't take that just anywhere, wouldn't risk losing it. He's got to be going somewhere special if he wants that with him."

The American tried to keep his expression neutral, as opposed to hopeful, "Right. Thanks James."

"S'fine. See around pal."

_**January 13**__**th**__**, NYC  
10.14am**_

The Englishman, Alfred saw the instant he unlocked the door to his penthouse, was precisely where he had expected to find him: sat upon his massive blue sofa, arms hooked over the back, watching some trashy day time TV. The American caught the scent of coffee on the air but dismissed the fact in order to return the gaze Arthur sent him instead.

"Morning. I let myself in."

"I can see that," Alfred carelessly threw his jacket onto a hook by the door and joined Arthur on the very edge of his sofa.

"Did you miss your flight? I didn't expect to get here before you did."

"I decided to take a flight the next day and then that evening I went to your place. I saw James and he told me you'd left him with Winston."

Arthur gave a nod, turning back around to grab the remote control and turn off the television.

"Has he killed the poor thing already?"

"Yeah, sorry."

Arthur gave a shrug, "I wouldn't worry: Winston the goldfish came from a long line of Winstons before him," the man gave the American a half-heartedly propitious smile, "Should I piss off?"

"Not necessarily. I don't know why you're here though, after what I said."

"Because I care about you and that's a double edged sword because I'm obviously the bloke who's also winding you up in the first place. Still, here I am."

"Yeah," Alfred repeatedly softly, "Here you are. Are you staying for a while? James thought you were."

"If you'll have me."

"Yeah," Alfred nodded coolly, "It's fine."

"I have a present for you, by the way. That's the main reason for why I'm here even though you said you wanted space," Not allowing Alfred a chance to question the man's claim, the Englishman hopped off the sofa and returned from Alfred's bedroom a couple of minutes later with a plain white carrier bag. From the bag he carefully removed a vaguely familiar red pullover. Alfred tried to place the shirt, but found himself only able to assume that it was "the shirt" to which James had alluded.

"Oh, thanks."

Arthur smiled wistfully, holding the item up by the top of each shoulder and revealing the name "Hurst" and a number emblazoned on the back, "You don't understand. I was... Well, I was touched when you gave me that jersey of yours a while back. So," he held the shirt out a little towards the other man, "I decided I wanted to give you this. Being a bit of a delinquent I sort of swapped the genuine article for a fake one after the match. You told me you thought that jersey of yours was lucky, right? Well, I consider this shirt to be very, _very_ bloody lucky."

"It's a jersey from when you won the Soccer World Cup?"

Arthur's hands appeared to give a violent twitch, "Don't call it "soccer". Please. It causes me physical pain."

"Okay, okay, "football"," Alfred studied the thing and then, afterwards, Arthur's face and the genuinely pained and strained expression there, "Why?"

"Because," the man said, the fingers of one of his hands giving the shirt a fond pat, "As long as you have this, you have my soul. You have every part of me. It's my promise that I belong to you."

With a bemused smile, the American reached out and took the shirt by the shoulders.

"Are you gonna let go?"

"Yes."

Alfred tried, delicately, to pull the shirt from Arthur's grasp to no avail. The Englishman's eyebrows seemed to contract with each effort to tug the shirt free.

"You really need to let go if you want me to have this."

"I know," finally, teeth gritted, Arthur let go, leaving Alfred holding the pullover up in front of himself at such a height as to hide his growing smile from the Englishman. Placing the jersey over the arm of the sofa, he sighed and pulled Arthur against himself, the man instantly tensing, shoulders raised up about his ears before he settled against the other man with what sounded like a relieved exhale.

"Okay, okay. It's a deal. You're mine, I'm yours – we have a special relationship."

"Thank you," Arthur said in a whisper against his neck. Alfred gave the man a firm pat on the back.

"It's just how it has to be," he said, with certainty, "You were right: we're meant for each other."

"Yes. We really are."

The Englishman still sprawled in an undignified manner upon him, cheek to his chest, Alfred gave a snort of laughter, which earned him an embarrassed and affronted look from Arthur.

"What? I was just thinking about how gay we are."

Arthur seemed to consider the words, "As in that horrible new definition of "rather crap and stupid" or as in the older meaning of "homosexual" or the older still one of "quite happy and jovial about things"?"

"All three?"

"Oh. Then yes, we are," Arthur agreed, the words reverberating up to Alfred through his ribcage. The American gave a grin.

**A/N**

**Jammy sod –** Incredibly, possibly unfairly, lucky person.

**"The 1992 World Conference" –** Personal canon and a reference to my other US/UK fic "Al and Artie do Blackpool". Considered the worst ever World Conference long weekend due more to an unfortunate concatenation of events as opposed to failures on Berwald's part.

**That postcard –** Another reference to "Blackpool".

**Trollied –** Very drunk

**Cozzie **– Swimming costume, generally referring to women's swimwear.

"**Soccer World Cup... '66... Hurst" – **Arthur gives Alfred the football shirt of the player who scored the 4th and final goal of the 1966 World Cup, the only World Cup to date that England have won (much to Arthur's despair, no doubt). The final was England versus Germany.


End file.
